ASK  NOT  TO  BORROW  M E, 


tl  wan  nene^  ao  wucfv  goob 
of  a-  faoofa  aa  vuIWvt  IW  pooaeoaea 


ifii&'ta-Mj  of 


frank  deland  Smith 

aw.  


u zoa  c<2,  awvo 

^fW  p^ico  boc  wot  cj'Zwbcj-c 
elt  i/ui££  boc  tJWe  mo^o  p-Eecioin/Le 
(slnc^nv  t'vuvco  aoe  imwc?v  t'^caow'Le-, 


OF  THE 

U N I V L R.  S ITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 


&\\ 

St  33  p 


UfJIVCRSiTY  OF  ILUNOiS 


“ And  as  entranced  he  lay , a seraph  bright 

Came  softly  winging  through  the  gates  of  light , 

And  caught  him  up,  and  to  the  earth  afar 
Dropped  downward  swiftly  as  a falling  star 

The  Poet*  page  10. 


Poems 


BY 


j.  d.stkeli^- 


Forgive  these  weak  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a wasted  youth ; 

Forgive  them  where  they  lack  in  truth. 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise.” 

— Tennyson 


San  Francisco  : 
GOLDEN  ERA  COMPANY 
1885. 


All  rights  reserved  by  the  Author. 


Printed  by  H.  6.  Parsons,  532  Clay  St..  S.  K. 


Si  I 

St  33 0 


TO  THE  MEMORY 
of 

my  mother, 

Whose  love  was  a shield  in  temptation,  a refuge  in  sorrow, 
in  adversity. ; and  whose  loss  was  the  one  great 
affliction  of  my  life, 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME 
is 

REVERENTLY  INSCRIBED. 


a comfort 


PREFACE. 


This  little  volume,  though  by  no  means  a complete  collection  of 
my  compositions  in  verse,  includes  most  of  those  pieces  which  I 
deem  best  worth  preserving.  That  some  given  here  might, 
even  according  to  my  own  judgment,  have  better  been  excluded,  I am 
bound  to  confess;  but  a perhaps  too  partial  fondness  has  led  me  in 
all  cases  to  give  them  the  benefit  of  a doubt. 

Most  of  the  verses  in  the  first  part  of  the  volume  were  written 
while  living  at  Ticonderoga,  New  York,  near  that  beautiful  gem  of 
nature.  Lake  George,  between  the  years  1875  and  1879,  which  will 
account  for  the  similarity  of  the  imagery  in  a number  of  them.  But 
one  I believe,  has  an  earlier  date,  “A  Spring  Song,”  which  was 
composed  in  my  seventeenth  year.  It  has  been  my  aim  to  make  these 
selections  represent,  in  a measure,  at  least,  my  present  habits  of 
thought,  and  to  exclude  such  verses  as  belong  to  the  more  unformed 
period  of  my  life. 

The  reader  will  notice,  by  reference  to  my  notes,  that  I have 
acknowledged  most  of  the  instances  where  I have  been  indebted  to 
others  for  distinctive  ideas  or  expressions.  I cannot  think  that  any 
writer  should  receive  credit  for  a mere  combination  of  words  express- 
ing a commonplace  thought;  but  passages  of  ideal  imagery,  which  are 
characteristic  marks  of  the  true  poet,  should  be  classed  in  quite 
another  category.  I have  freely  used  such  where  I was  unable  my- 
self to  find  an  expression  conveying  my  thought  with  the  same  ex- 
actness. I cannot  feel  myself  compelled  to  use  a weak  instead  of  a 
strong  expression,  because  some  one  else  may  have  used  similar  lan- 
guage before  me.  If  this  be  a fault,  I think  I have  atoned  for  it  by 
giving  due  credit  to  the  original. 

The  haste  with  which  this  little  work  has  been  prepared  for  the 
press  has  made  it  impossible  to  give  the  verses  it  contains  that  care- 
ful revision  which  would  have  pruned  away  many  serious  faults;  but, 
as  no  one  can  have  so  complete  a sense  of  their  many  imperfections 
as  have  I myself,  no  just  criticism  they  may  receive  will  be  other- 

J.  D.  Steell 


CONTENTS, 


Frontispiece — The  Poet’s  Birth. 

The  Poet, 

The  Poet’s  Soul, 

The  Dying  Poet, 

A Spring  Song, 

The  Robin  Sings, 

For  a Lady’s  Album, 

The  Invitation, 

The  Answer, 

The  Wildflower, 

Summer, 

In  Judo  Time, 

Summer  Morning, 

The  Thunder  Shower, 

After  the  Storm, 

An  August  Day, 

Evening, 

A Reverie, 

Dejection, 

Compensation, 

Aspiration, 

A Prayer, 

Who  Will  Lead  Me, 

My  Flower, 

The  Seraphs, 

The  Meeting  of  Summer  and  Autumn 
My  Love, 

Thou  and  I, 

To  a Lady, 

The  Lover’s  Watch, 

The  Bells, 

Recollection, 

An  Invocation, 

Sorrow, 

A Memory, 


Page 

9 

13 

14 

16 

19 

20 

21 

22 

24 

26 

27 

28 

29 

31 

32 

33 

35 

36 

38 

40 

41 

42 

43 

45 

46 

47 

49 

50 

51 

52 

53 

54 

55 

57 


r s] 

Autumn  Thoughts, 

Longfellow, 

My  Twenty-First  Birthday. 

Waiting,  • 

Passion, 

A Canadaian  Winter  Night, 

In  Memoriam, 

A Tribute, 

William  Cullen  Bryant, 

Bayard  Taylor, 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  President  Garfield. 
Montefiore  Ode, 

Burns, 

The  Cry  of  the  People, 

Sonnets, 

A Picture  of  Memory, 

To  My  Ideal  Lady, 

Spring, 

Decoration  Day, 

The  Stars, 

Sonnets  on  Faith, 

The  Autumn  Moon, 

Success, 

Despondency, 

For  a Friend’s  Album, 

Keats’  Epitaph, 

Lake  George, 

The  Plague  Summer, 

William  Lloyd  Garrison, 

The  Brook, 

Garfield, 

In  Memory  of  My  Mother, 
Bereavement, 

On  Longfellow’s  Death, 

On  the  Death  of  My  Brother, 
Happiness, 

To  Patti, 

L’Envoy, 

Notes. 


59 

61 

62 

64 

65 

66 

67 

71 

72 

73 

75 

86 

89 

91 

93 

94 

94 

95 

96 

96 

97 

98 

99 

99 

100 

100 

101 

102 

103 

104 

104 

105 

106 

107 

107 

108 

108 

109 


the  poet. 


While  still  the  poet’s  soul,  as  yet  unborn, 

Lay  by  the  jeweled  portals  of  the  morn, 

A voice  from  far  beyond  the  golden  seas 
Came  floating  down  through  crystal  silences, 

And  thus  it  spake  : “O  mortal,  thou  shalt  be 

God’s  messenger  to  men;  since  unto  thee 
Hath  grace  been  given  that  thou  mayest  behold 
The  glories  of  high  heaven  manifold, 

And  hear  in  rapturous  songs  these  spirits  bright 
Sing  praises  to  the  fount  of  love  and  light. 

So  shall  this  vision  be  to  thee  on  earth 
A sign  and  symbol  of  thy  higher  birth; 

For  wheresoe’er  thine  erring  feet  may  stray , 

About  thee  still  the  airs  of  heaven  shall  play; 
TJndrowned  by  all  the  jarring  chords  of  sm, 

These  harmonies  shall  dwell  thy  soul  within. 

Thou  shalt  in  all  earth’s  loveliness  descry 
A likeness  to  these  brighter  realms  on  high, 

And  view  with  something  of  a seraph’s  ken 
The  secrets  of  the  marvelous  souls  of  men.” 

So  spake  the  voice,  then  died  in  one  vast  sound, 
Re-echoing  far  to  heaven’s  remotest  bound, 

And  stirred  the  conscious  spirit,  and  awoke, 
While  from  the  heaven  of  heavens  a glory  broke; 


10 


POEMS . 


And  toned  to  ringing  trump  and  breathing  lyre. 
Celestial  song  soared  up  like  living  fire. 

Then,  as  with  sound  melodious  open  swung 
The  pearly  gates  on  golden  hinges  bung,1 
He  with  an  unsealed  vision  did  behold 
Bright,  gleaming  towers  and  pinnacles  of  gold, 

Down  glimmering  vistas  fading  from  his  sight, 
Illumined  with  a great  awakening  light2 
In  still  increasing  splendor  downward  poured 
From  the  most  glorious  presence  of  the  Lord, 

Who  on  the  shining  summits  sat  enthroned 
By  rank  on  rank  of  radiant  spirits  zoned. 

There  cherubim  and  seraphim  ablaze 
With  awful  glory  did  bright  faces  raise, 

While  lifting  star-wreathed  harps  the  glorious  throng 
All  heaven  awoke  with  a great  burst  of  song, 

And  ’mid  the  jeweled  courts  their  music  died 
In  murmurs  sweet  by  echoes  multiplied. 

Then  thrilled  the  wakening  soul  with  joy  intense, 

A holy  rapture  ravished  every  sensn; 

And  as  entranced  he  lay,  a seraph  bright 
Came  softly  winging  through  the  gates  of  light, 

And  caught  him  up,  and  to  the  earth  afar 
Dropped  downward  swiftly  as  a falling  star,3 
As  rich  with  rosy  splendors  upon  earth 
Bright  dawned  the  morning  of  the  poet’s  birth. 

Thus  to  the  poet,  when  first  his  conscious  eyes 
Beheld  the  glory  of  the  earth  and  skies, 

All  common  things  with  hidden  meaning  rife 
With  gleams  of  richest  beauty  filled  his  life. 

So  first  abroad  a dreaming  boy  he  strayed 


POEMS. 


11 


Where  o’er  the  rocks  the  crystal  streamlets  played, 

And  saw  beyond  the  cataracts  silver  veil 
The  many  colored  rainbows  flash  and  fail. 

Oft  deep  in  meadow  grasses  would  he  lie, 

And  watch  white  clouds  sail  through  the  peaceful  sky; 
Or  through  the  shady  forest  bent  his  way, 

Where  through  the  leaves  did  quivering  sunbeams 
play; 

Or  in  his  fairy  skiff  would  lightly  glide 
Across  the  glassy  lake  from  side  to  side, 

And  often  there  would  seek  some  verdant  isle 
Where  all  around  did  bright-hued  flowerets  smile, 

And  on  a mossy  bank  reclining,  heard 

The  chime  of  waves  and  song  of  sweet-voiced  bird. 

And  ever  unseen  forms  seemed  hovering  near, 

And  mystic  voices  murmured  in  his  ear; 

While  lovely  dreams,  like  airy  spirits  fan, 

Peopled  with  beauteous  shapes  the  common  air. 

So  ever,  year  by  year,  the  poet  grew; 

Each  day  unto  his  soul  gave  insight  new; 

And  nature’s  secret  record  to  his  sight 
Lay  like  a volume  open  to  the  light. 

To  him  their  stories  did  the  wild-flowers  tell, 
Blossoming  on  verdant  hill,  in  bosky  dell; 

He  read  strange  meanings  in  the  wild-bird’s  lay, 
Heard  sweetest  music  in  the  streamlet’s  play; 

For  him  the  soft  wind  soughing  in  the  trees 
Told  in  its  cadences  wondrous  histories; 

The  mighty  ocean  with  a rhythmic  tune 
Chanted  for  him  its  mystic  ancient  rune; 

And  though  he  dwelt  from  ways  of  men  apart, 


12 


POEMS. 


He  read  with  instinct  true  the  human  heart. 

Yet  of  the  things  once  dimly  seen  and  heard 
A memory  vague  his  inmost  nature  stirred. 

Oft  in  sweet  visions  of  the  solemn  night 
He  caught  far  gleams  of  seraphs’  robes  of  light. 

He  did  ’yond  sunset’s  shining  veil  behold 
Bright  gleam  the  heavenly  city’s  gates  of  gold; 

For  him  the  morning’s  roseate  radiance  shone 
Bright  with  the  glory  round  the  awful  throne, 

And  in  the  mighty  thunder’s  dreadful  roll 
The  voice  of  God  spake  to  his  awe-struck  soul; 

Thus  to  this  soul,  by  God  and  nature  taught, 
Each  year  a higher  wisdom  came  unsought, 

Until  within  him  woke  the  speech  of  song, 

And  thrilled  with  rapture  all  the  careless  throng. 
For  in  his  music  breathed  the  wood-bird’s  lay, 

The  babbling  streamlet’s  rippling  melody, 

The  sound  of  murmuring  breeze  and  silver  shower, 
The  tone  of  mighty  thunder’s  voice  of  power; 

And  more  than  all,  blent  in  its  tuneful  strain 
The  under-chords  of  human  joy  and  pain. 

So  did  the  common  race  the  poet  ordain 
The  lawful  guardian  of  Truth’s  sacred  fane; 

To  him  men  wreathes  of  greenest  laurel  brought, 
To  crown  him  monarch  of  the  realm  of  thought; 
And  still  the  ages  through,  in  every  clime, 

Held  as  a treasure  were  his  songs  sublime. 

Thus  as  God’s  sovereign  will  at  first  decreed, 

This  gifted  soul  supplied  earth’s  higher  need. 


POEMS. 


13 


THE  POETT’S  SOUL. 


The  poet’s  soul  is  like  a crystal  stream4 

That  on  yon  far-off  glimmering  mountain  height 

Springs  from  the  lowly  earthy  though  horn  of  heaven. 

How  gushes  forth  the  limpid  fount,  and  flows 
Down  under  arching  houghs  of  ancient  trees, 

Where  merrily  the  sweet-voiced  song-hirds  sing. 

Along  its  borders  fair  wild  flowerets  grow, 

And  tufts  of  feathery  ferns.  It  dimples  soft 
Round  mossy  rocks,  and  through  its  crystal  shows 
Bright  pehhles,  and  light  drifts  of  silver  sand. 

And  still  it  ripples  on,  and  gayly  sings; 

While  o’er  it  bright  the  glittering  sunbeams  play, 

And  rosy  light  of  dawn,  and  sunsets’  glow, 

And  the  calm  glory  of  the  moon  and  stars, 

Reflected  in  its  shimmering  surface,  shine. 

Then  stronger  grown,  through  the  green  vale  it  glides, 
By  verdant  slopes,  and  fields  of  billowy  grain, 

And  homes,  and  hamlets.  Then  its  current  swells 
To  a great  river,  and  its  mighty  flood 
Sweeps  on  by  populous  cities’  busy  marts, 

And  bears  upon  its  breast  great  argosies; 

Yet  still  reflects  the  glory  of  the  skies, 

Or  myriad  sparkling  lights  from  happy  homes, 

And  bears  within  its  depths,  though  dimmed  and  stained, 
The  semblance  of  its  pristine  purity. 

So  creature  of  two  diverse  elements 


14 


POEMS. 


It  runs  its  course,  until  it  finds  its  rest 
On  the  vast  bosom  of  the  mighty  sea. 

Thus  is  the  poet’s  fate,  for  thus  he  shares 
The  common  lot  of  man,  yet  ever  keeps 
A likeness  of  a higher  state,  nor  ere 
Wanders  so  far  but  he  may  faintly  hear 
The  distant  murmur  of  the  fountain-head, 
And  keep  unsullied  still  his  inmost  soul. 


THk  DYING  POET. 


The  dying  poet  nigh  to  the  casement  lay, 

While  the  bright  glory  of  the  setting  sun 
Shone  o’er  his  pallid  features.  Richly  gay 

Along  the  sky  did  waves  of  color  run; 

And  nature  in  that  peaceful  hour  and  fair, 

Like  a tired  laborer  when  his  task  is  done, 

Breathed  resfcfully.  The  cool,  soft  evening  air 
The  damp  locks  on  the  sufferer’s  forehead  stirred, 
And  fell  a grateful  silence  everywhere, 

Sweet  as  a benediction.  He  but  heard 
Afar  the  tuneful  chime  of  silver  bell, 

And  the  sweet  vesper,  song  of  twittering  bird; 


POEMS. 


15 


While  through  the  casement  wide  his  glances  fell 
On  bright-hued  garden  plats  with  bud  and  flower, 
And  verdant  tree-crests  fair  o’er  hill  and  dell. 

Far  off  he  saw  the  purple  mountains  tower, 

And  at  their  base  the  silver  waters  shine, 

Lit  with  the  parting  sunbeam’s  golden  shower. 

“All  these,  fair  nature’s  charms,  are  mine,” 

/He  said,  “O  Father!  yet  thy  rest  is  best; 

I bow  submissive  to  thy  will  divine. 

So  did  he  cross  his  hands  upon  his  breast, 

Then  whispered  low  a prayer  of  childhood’s  days, 
And  turned  again  to  face  the  glowing  west, 

And  there  beyond  the  golden  sunset’s  blaze 
Seemed  Heaven  s shining  portals  to  arise 
Whence  floated  soft,  sweet  breathing  harmonies. 

Then  hovering  near  before  his  wondering  eyes 
Appeared  fair  forms  arrayed  in  pearly  white, 

In  semblance  of  those  loved  in  earthly  guise. 

£o  slowly  died  away  the  vision  bright, 

And  with  a murmur  “Beautiful!”  he  passed 
As  gently  as  the  fading  sunset  light. 


16 


POEMS. 


A SPRING  SONG. 


Spring  is  coming,  spring  is  coming! 

I can  hear  her  footsteps  light, 

Dancing  o’er  the  fields  and  meadows 
With  a careless,  free  delight. 

I can  see  her  garments  flashing 
Through  the  woodlands  brightly  fair, 
On  the  morning  breezes  floating 
Shines  the  splendor  of  her  hair. 

She  hath  broken  icy  fetters 
From  the  lakes  and  singing  streams, 
She  hath  robed  the  earth  in  greenness. 
Lit  the  air  with  sunny  gleams. 

’Neath  her  shining  feet  the  flowerets 
From  the  sod  do  freshly  spring; 

And  where’er  she  breathes  the  orchards 
All  are  gayly  blossoming. 

Softer  blue  is  in  the  heaven, 

Gentle  fragrance  fills  the  air; 

And  the  landscape  round  her  smiling 
Doth  its  brightest  aspect  wear. 

Gleaming  distant  azure  mountains 
Wreathed  about  in  silver  mist, 

Nearer  heights  in  freshest  greenness 
By  the  golden  sunbeams  kissed. 


POEMS. 


17 


Dewy  meadows  strewn  with  shining 
Dandelions’  stars  of  gold, 

Breezy  hills  and  odorous  woodlands, 
Valleys  green  as  emerald; 

All  transfigured  by  her  presence, 

In  their  richest  dress  appear, 

’Tis  the  sweetest,  gayest,  fairest 
Season  of  the  varied  year. 

For  the  air  is  full  of  promise 
Of  the  glory  that  shall  be: 

Summer’s  ripened  charms,  and  Autumn’s 
Pomp  of  gorgeous  panoply. 

With  the  bounteous  waving  harvests 
Gladdening  valley,  hill  and  plain; 

Ricks  of  scented  hay,  and  glowing, 
Sunny  fruits,  and  golden  grain; 

All  the  full  and  glad  fruition 
That  the  finished  year  shall  bring, 

I can  see  this  day  foreshadowed 
In  the  wakening  life  of  Spring. 

Every  pulse  of  earth  is  thrilling 
With  a deep  embo unding  joy, 

Like  the  spirit  free  and  guileless 
Of  an  eager-hearted  boy. 

Gayly  run  the  rippling  streamlets, 
Singing  sweetly  as  they  flow; 


18 


POEMS. 


And  the  warm  south  breezes  murmur 
With  a music  sweet  and  low; 

While  the  merry  bees  are  humming 
In  the  hearts  of  apple  blows, 

And  the  glorious  sun  in  heaven 
In  unclouded  radiance  glows. 

Sweetly  in  the  groves  and  meadows 
Do  the  darting  songbirds  sing; 

And  all  nature  to  the  anthem 
Of  the  opening  year  doth  ring. 

So  while  all  things  sing  their  praises 
Unto  God  in  their  delight, 

Let  me,  too,  my  lyre  awakening, 
Praise  the  fount  of  love  and  light. 

Let  me  worship  God  in  nature, 
Without  dogma,  without  creed; 

And  his  voice  that  breathes  around  me 
Shall  supply  my  spirit's  need. 

Here  I read  a record  written 
As  in  characters  of  gold, 

Of  his  greatness  and  his  goodness 
And  his  mercies  manifold; 

While  my  raptured  soul  is  thrilling 
With  a holy,  calm  delight; 

And  my  spirit,  blindly  striving; 
Reaches  upward  towards  the  light. 


POEMS. 


19 


THE  KORIN  SINGS. 


The  robin  sings,  and  all  the  air 
Is  balmy  with  the  breath  of  spring. 

The  sweet  May-flowers  are  blossoming. 

The  mountains  stand  a luminous  ring 
With  golden  sunshine  glittering. 

The  lake  lies  hushed  in  peaceful  rest, 

The  cloudlets  mirrored  on  its  breast. 

The  plum  and  cherry  gayly  show 
Their  fairy  blossoms  white  as  snow; 

And  all  the  crowded  orchard  glows 
With  rosy-tinted  apple  blows. 

While  brightly  bloom  the  garden  flowers, 
And  in  the  greenwood's  shady  bowers 
The  sweet  wild  blossoms  fair  as  they 
Their  radiant  loveliness  display. 

The  robin  sings,  and  at  his  call 
The  merry  birds  come  trooping  all; 

Up,  up  the  blue  bird  starts,  and  flings 
The  dewdrops  from  his  glossy  wings, 

And  in  his  flight  he  sweetly  sings. 

Afar  through  crystal  depths  I view 
The  swallows  darting  toward  the  blue; 

In  the  deep^hade  of  purple  woods 
The  lonely  phoebe  sings  and  broods; 

Ever  about  the  open  door 

The  chattering  wrens  are  seen  once  more; 


20 


POEMS . 


And  in  the  hush  of  evening  shrill 
Reiterates  the  whippoorwill. 

The  robin  sings,  his  merry  song 
Rings  through  the  woodlands  loud  and  long 
All  springtime  gladness  seems  compressed 
Within  the  limits  of  his  breast; 

While  on  her  nest  in  yonder  tree 
His  gentle  mate  sits  patiently, 

Till  the  bright  days  pass  swiftly  by, 

And  far  away  her  nestlings  fly. 


FOR  A LADY’S  ALBUM. 


Behold,  ’tis  spring,  and  nature’s  breast 
Is  stirring  with  a sweet  unrest. 

The  sky  is  deeply,  darkly  blue, 

The  earth  is  clad  in  vernal  hue; 

The  lakes  lie  glittering  in  the  sun, 

The  streams  with  tuneful  murmurs  run; 
And  nature  hails  with  sounds  of  cheer 
The  raptures  of  the  opening  year. 

Behold,  ’tis  spring,  and  in  thy  heart 
New  streams  of  thought  and  deling  start. 
The  world  before  thee  lieth  fair 
And  glorious  sunshine  lingereth  there; 


POEMS . 


Fond  love  with  flowerets  strews  thy  way, 
And  all  thy  days  are  brightly  gay. 

Oh,  may  all  these  but  prophesy 
The  wealth  of  golden  summer  nigh. 


THE  INVITATION. 


Come,  love,  and  you  and  I will  go  a’  Maying! 
Through  the  green  woods  the  balmy  airs  are  playing, 
The  sun  is  warm  and  bright, 

And  nature’s  breast  is  thrilling  with  delight. 

Come,  let  us  this  one  day 
Put  all  life’s  cares  away, 

And  be  like  merry  children,  blithe  and  gay. 

Come,  we  will  seek  a green  and  sunny  nook, 

A grassy  bank  by  yonder  babbling  brook, 

And  I will  gather  knots  of  bright-hued  flowers 
And  thou  can’st  weave  them  in  a chap'et  fair, 

That  I with  kisses  on  thy  brow  shall  lay, 

And  crown  thee  sweetest  Queen  of  Love  and  May. 

There  shall  we  watch  the  glittering  sunbeams  play 
Along  the  stream;  and  tuned  to  sweet  birds’  melody 
Thou  mayest  sing  of  love  some  tender  lay; 

Or  I will  read  some  poet’s  melting  rhyme 
Breathing  the  spirit  of  the  fair  Springtime; 


22 


POEMS. 


And  so  will  quickly  pass  the  happy  day. 

Then,  when  in  golden  glory  sinks  the  sun, 
Laden  with  ferns  and  blossoms  will  we  come, 
Like  children  from  their  play,  rejoicing  home; 
And  with  a lingering  kiss  will  part,  and  say: 
Oh,  blessed  time  of  love,  sweet  month  of  May 


TTTED  ANSWER. 


I cried  aloud  in  agony, 

“God  help  me,  or  I die!” 

There  fell  from  out  the  silent  heaven 
No  answer  to  my  cry. 

And  so  I lowly  bowed  my  head 
And  sat  in  speechless  woe, 

The  scalding  teardrops  filled  my  eyes, 

My  sad  heart  worked  below. 

But  still,  with  ringing  melody, 

A merry  bird  did  trill 
From  the  old  apple  tree  whose  boughs 
Just  touched  the  window  sill. 

“Come  forth,  come  forth,”  he  seemed  to  say, 
“The  sun  is  shining  fair; 

Come  forth,  sweet  nature's  ministries 
Will  banish  all  thy  care.” 


POt  MS. 


23 


Then  out  I went,  and  all  around 
Bid  nature  sweetly  smile; 

The  landscape,  bathed  in  golden  light, 
Stretched  round  me,  mile  on  mile. 

The  rose-hued  blossoms  of  the  peach 
Along  the  highways  glowed; 

And  apple,  plum  and  cherry  there 
Their  fairy  blossoms  showed. 

The  dandelion’s  golden  stars 
Had  dotted  all  the  green, 

Glittering  on  every  leaf  and  spray 
Were  diamond  dewdrops  seen. 

All  clad  in  robes  of  freshest  green 
Appeared  the  landscape  nigh; 

And  softly  blue,  the  distant  heights 
Seemed  mingling  with  the  sky. 

Then  forth  I went  into  the  wood; 

The  grass  was  bright  with  flowers, 

The  glorious  sunstine  through  the  leaves 
Streamed  down  in  golden  showers. 

The  stream  ran  singing  on  its  way 
Above  its  pebbly  bed; 

With  silver  tone  the  merry  birds 
Sang  sweetly  overhead. 

And  so  at  length  a sense  of  rest, 

A sweet  and  holy  calm, 

Upon  my  troubled  spirit  fell, 

Like  touch  of  softest  balm. 


24 


POEMS. 


Through  nature’s  myriads  voices  then 
Methought  God  spake  to  me, 

And  on  her  face  I saw  his  smile 
Of  sweet  benignity. 

Thus  unto  me  assurance  came 
Which  did  all  doubt  dispell, 

That,  though  his  ways  are  dark,  yet  still 
He  doeth  all  things  well. 


THE  WILD  FLOWER. 


Beautiful  little  flower, 

Blossoming  here  at  my  feet, 

Sweet,  so  sweet ! 

Shall  I pluck  thee  and  bear  thee  home, 
To  my  close  and  sultry  room, 

Away  from  the  bright,  blue  sky, 

Away  from  the  fresh,  green  wood, 

To  wither  soon  and  die  ? 

Or  shall  I leave  thee  here 
To  bloom  in  sunshine  clear, 

And  bear  thine  image  dear 
Deep  rooted  in  my  heart, 

Whence  it  shall  ne’er  depart  ? 

I leave  thee,  lovely  flower, 

In  thy  bright  greenwood  bower, 


POEMS. 


25 


Nor  will  thy  place  molest; 

And  thy  sweet  memory 
Long  hence  shall  come  to  me, 
When  weary  and  opprest, 

With  blissful  sense  of  rest. 

Let  flaunting  garden-blooms 
Adorn  wealth’s  gilded  rooms, 

Or  shine  in  beauty’s  hair. 

Thou,  on  earth’s  mantle  green 
Only,  should  e’er  be  seen, 

’Mongst  all  her  treasures  rare. 
Part  of  the  spring  thou  art, 

And  near  to  nature  s heart 
D welle th,  a thing  apart. 

Here,  in  the  sweet  May  air, 
Should  thou  earth’s  bounty  share. 
And  glad  the  weary  eye 
Of  every  passer-by 
With  modest  beauty  rare. 

May  none  disturb  thy  rest 
On  thy  fond  mother’s  breast. 

Part  of  this  lovely  scene, 

Clear  brook  and  verdure  green. 
Bright  sun  and  azure  sky, 

So  shouldst  thou  live  and  die. 


26 


POEMS. 


SUMMER. 


She  comes,  she  comes,,  the  goddess  of  the  sun, 

The  glory  of  the  sunlight  on  her  hair, 

The  splendor  of  the  morning  on  her  brow. 

Her  azure  eyes  are  lit  with  dancing  flame, 

And  o’er  her  features  plays  a beaming  smile. 

She  comes  rejoicing  from  the  sunny  South, 

In  robes  of  lustrous  green  begemmed  with  dew, 

About  her  lightly  flung  a floating  veil 
Of  gauzy  golden  mist.  She  slowly  wings 
Her  flight  o’er  billowy  fields  of  grain  and  plays 
With  the  soft  breeze  in  odorous  cedar  groves, 

Or  kisses  folded  rosebuds  into  bloom. 

She  decks  the  sombre  forest  with  bright  wreathes 
Of  fairest  flowers;  and  on  the  grass-green  hill, 

Or  purple  mountain,  stands  and  waves  her  wand 
O’er  all  the  slumbrous  earth  that  seems  to  swoon 
In  mellow  radiance. 

All  the  land  arrayed 
In  richest  dress  looks  up  in  smiling  joy 
Into  her  shining  face.  The  mirrored  lake 
Reflects  her  image,  and  the  purling  brooks 
And  murmuring  rivers  sing  her  praise.  To  songs 
Of  waking  birds,  sweet  chime  of  waves,  and  low, 

Sweet  sigh  of  winds  Tnongst  whispering  pines,  the  Mom 
Flings  open  wide  the  jeweled  gates,  and  comes 
Blushing  to  hail  with  gladness  her  approach. 


POEMS. 


27 


The  pensive  Eve  near  sunset’s  golden  wall 
Awaits  to  fold  her  in  soft  embrace, 

And  queenly  Night  in  majesty  enthroned 
In  yon  high  heaven  stoops  in  gentle  love 
To  soothe  her  with  light  kisses  unto  sleep. 

O glorious  Summer,  queen  of  all  the  year, 

May  man  too  wake  such  hymns  of  grateful  praise 
As  nature  sings  to  thee;  and  ever  hail 
A near  approach  with  thoughts  of  rapturous  joy. 


«- 


IN  JUNE  T'lXIU. 


The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  bright, 

The  circling  meadows  gleam  with  light. 

The  silver  lakelet  sweetly  smiles, 

Soft  dimpling  round  its  fairy  isles. 

The  purple  cliffs  tower  dark  and  high 
Outlined  against  a sapphire  sky. 

By  myriads  sweet  wild  roses  blow, 
Reflected  in  the  wave  below. 

Along  the  rocks  the  hairbells  blue 
Are  sparkling  with  the  morning  dew. 

In  meadows  green  the  buttercup 
Holds  high  its  golden  chalice  up; 


28 


POEMS. 


And  in  the  valley,  dewy  wet, 

Is  seen  the  modest  violet. 

The  robin  trills  his  merry  song 
From  the  high  tree-fops  all  day  long. 

Yonder  beside  the  streamlet's  brink 
Warbles  the  sweet-voiced  bobolink. 

I cannot  choose  but  sing  to-day, 

My  heart  is  with  the  sunshine  gay; 

I seem  to  feel  in  this  glad  hour 
The  thrilling  life  of  bud  and  flower. 

So  in  my  bosom  full  and  strong 
Gushes  the  mystic  fount  of  song; 

And  tuned  to  nature's  harmony 
My  soul  seems  all  one  melody. 


SUMMER  MORNING. 


There  is  a gush  of  music  from  the  groves; 

The  sweet-voiced  birds  that  sing  their  roundelays, 
And  with  their  gleeful  twitterings  greet  their  loves. 
Fill  all  the  air  with  joyous  melodies. 

The  whole  wide  earth  is  bathed  in  golden  haze. 

Far  mountains  tower,  half  veiled  in  silver  mist, 

In  color  like  the  purple  amethyst. 


POEMS. 


29 


Near  heights,  gray  rocks,  and  tufted,  sombre  pines 
Reflected  show  in  the  fair  lake  that  shines 
Rippling  round  blooming  isles,  in  winding  creeks  ana 
bays . 

I see  above  bright  blue  the  arching  sky, 

Around  the  earth  in  freshest  greenness  fair, 

While  blooming  flowers  of  many  a varied  dye 
Are  strewn  in  rich  profusion  everywhere. 

I drink  deep  draughts  of  the  cool  morning  air, 

Laden  with  woodland  odors  strangely  sweet, 

As  far  away  I ha-»te  with  bounding  feet, 

Along  the  mountain  paths’  free  winding  ways; 

And  wake  with  grateful  heart  a hymn  of  praise 
To  God  wh>  in  his  goodness  made  the  world  so  fair. 


the:  thunder  showe  r 


There  is  no  breath  of  air;  the  earth  lies  sti  1 
As  with  a hush  of  deep  expectancy; 

Scarce  a leaf  flutters.  Valley,  mead  and  hill 
In  the  close,  sultry  summer  afternoon 
All  languidly  do  lie  as  in  a swoon. 

The  birds  chirp  shrilly;  and  as  near  to  be 
Seems  the  Jaint  babbling  of  the  rippling  rill. 


30 


POEMS. 


Afar  o’er  yonder  frowning  mountain  height 
Dark,  threatening  hangs  a heavy  purple  cloud 
From  which  flash  frequently  the  lightnings  bright; 
And  ever  louder,  like  the  angry  growls 
Of  some  great  beast,  the  wakening  thunder  rolls 
Echoing  from  cliff  to  cliff  with  bellowings  loud 
Till  the  earth  trembles  at  its  voice  of  might. 

Upward  the  dark  cloud  rolls  till  all  the  sky 
Is  as  if  with  a sable  pall  o’erspread; 

Crouching  with  fear  the  still  earth  seems  to  lie 

While  nearer  thunders  break  with  deafening  crash; 
And  evermore  the  dazzling  lightnings  flash 
In  glowing  color,  yellow,  blue  and  red, 

Like  flaming  swords  that  blaze  and  gleam  on  bigh. 

It  seems  as  though  again  did  Jove  defend 
From  the  bold  Titians,  heaven’s  exalted  seat. 
Another  crash,  the  heavens  seem  to  rend. 

A few  large,  heavy  drops  do  pattering  fall; 

And  then,  as  by  God’s  awful  mandate,  all 
The  gates  of  heaven  are  opened,  and  like  a sheet 
With  a great  rush  the  mighty  floods  descend. 

But  soon  ’tis  passed,  and  grateful  coolness  fills 
The  air,  a pleasant  scent  hath  the  moist  earth ; 
The  sun  in  glory  sinks  ’yond  western  hills, 

The  jeweled  drops  gleam  on  leaf  and  spray, 

Fair  Iris’  bow,  with  varied  colors  gay, 

Spans  all  the  sky;  and  as  with  a new  birth 
The  whole  world  with  a fresher  being  -thrills. 


POEMS. 


31 


after  the  storm. 

The  storm  is  over.  Oh,  how  fair 
Look  earth  and  heaven,  wave  and  air! 

The  landscape  seems  a fresher  green, 
And  von  bright  water’s  silver  sheen 
Reflect’ s the  dory  of  the  skies 
Rich  with  the  rainbow’s  gorgeous  dyes; 
While  in  the  west  drops  fold  on  fold 
A mighty  veil  of  shining  gold, 

All  bordered  deep  with  burning  flame. 
The  thoughts  I cannot  even  name 
That  rise  within  my  mind  and  thrill 
My  being  with  such  ectasy. 

It  seems  as  though  I could  not  be 
Here  upon  earth,  but  rather  there, 
Beyond  that  glorious  curtain  fair, 
Where  I in  spirit  can  behold 
The  heave Dly  city’s  gates  of  gold, 

And  hear  sweet  seraph  voices  raise 
To  God  their  hymns  of  grateful  praise. 
Yet  earth  seems  now  almost  as  bright 
As  are  those  heavenly  realms  of  light. 
On  leaf  and  floweret  glistening 
The  diamond  raindrops  lightly  cling; 
Beyond  the  glistening  waters  stand 
Blue  mountains  lit  with  glory  grand, 
And  fair  the  distant  islands  seem 


32 


POEMS . 


As  those  of  ancient  poet’s  dream. 

The  mystic  glory  dies  away 
And  evening  shadows  dull  and  gray 
O’er  all  the  landscape  swiftly  fall 
While  dreary  darkness  covers  all; 

Yet  still  a pure  and  calm  delight 
Makes  all  my  soul  so  still  and  bright 
I would  that  I could  dare  to  pray 
The  glory  of  this  summer’s  day 
Might  never  from  me  pass  away. 


AN  AUGUST  DAY. 


How  gloriously  the  August  sunshine  flashes 
Along  the  surface  of  the  silver  lake; 

With  what  a pleasant  sound  the  wavelets  break 
Along  the  rocky  shores,  as  my  light  skiff 
Glides  in  the  shade  of  many  a towering  cliff. 

I scent  the  breath  of  cedar  and  of  pine; 

I watch  the  rippling  waters  round  me  shine, 
Floating  by  verdant  islands,  headlands,  capes. 
The  distant  mountains  seem  to  take  new  shapes 
In  changing  lights  and  shadows;  fair  are  seen 
The  smiling  valleys,  sombre  heights  between; 
Bright  blue  and  cloudless  is  the  arching  sky, 
And  slumbering  seemeth  all  the  world  to  lie. 


POEMS . 


33 


This  is  the  time  to  only  float  and  dream. 

Far  oft*  the  tumult  of  the  world  doth  seem. 
Here  upoi  nature's  bosom  sweet  and  mild 
I feel  myself  her  heir,  her  favored  child, 

One  of  the  happy  throng  that  sportive  play 
In  the  bright  sunshine  of  this  summer's  day. 

Now  sinks  the  blazing  sun  in  glory  down 
In  the  far  west,  beyond  the  mountains  brown, 
And  in  its  glorious  radiance  I behold 
The  bright  lake  as  the  sea  of  burnished  gold, 
Like  crystal,  to  the  loved  disciple  shown 
Before  the  glory  of  God’s  shining  throne, 

In  vision  rapt,  on  Patmos’  island  lone. 


EVENING. 

From  glimmering  vistas  richly  bright 
Beyond  the  sunset's  gates  of  light 
The  lovely  Evening  cometh  now. 

A single  star  upon  her  brow 
Beams  with  a radiance  pure  and  soft, 
And  in  her  hand  she  holds  aloft 
The  silver  crescent  moon;  while  fair 
The  glory  of  her  streaming  hair 
O'er  trailing  robes  of  silver  mist 
Low  falleth,  and  by  sunbeams  kissed 


34 


POEMS . 


The  gentle  beauty  of  her  face 
Beams  with  a pure  and  heavenly  grace. 

Hail,  Evening,  pensive  and  demure! 

Hail,  holy  vestal,  sweet  and  pure! 

Dear  nurse  of  thought — the  poet’s  friend. 
With  thy  approach  day’s  tumults  end, 
And  I,  on  fancy’s  pinions  free, 

Seek  mystic  realms  of  poesy; 

Where  circled  by  the  purple  seas 
Smile  islands  of  Hesperides. 

There  by  still  lakes  and  crystal  streams 
I wander,  lost  in  glorious  dreams; 

Or  on  the  flowery  banks  repose, 

Near  where  the  creamy  lotus  blows, 

And  gaudy  scarlet  poppies  flame 
Eich  with  a glory  without  name. 

Then  SAviftly  close  around  me  throng 
Star-crowned  the  godlike  sons  of  song; 
And  loud  I hear  their  harps,  glad  ring 
As  in  a chorus  sweet  they  sing, 

Till  I seem  of  their  company, 

And  strive  to  ape  their  minstrelsy. 

Sweet  Evening,  in  thy  peace  profound 
Have  I life’s  dearest  solace  found. 

With  thee  communing  I forget 
Men’s  scorn,  and  harshness,  and  neglect. 
The  cares  and  griefs  of  busy  day 
Are  'ike  worn  fetters  thrown  away. 

Of  all  life’s  gifts  I count  the  best 
Thy  blessed  boon  of  easeful  rest. 


POEMS. 


35 


A REVERIE. 


The  silver  curtain  of  the  twilight 
Around  me  falls. 

The  golden  glory  of  the  sunlight  fadeth 
’Yond  mountain  walls. 

The  shadows  on  the  purple  mountains  deepen; 

And  far  away 

The  glowing  hues  of  fleecy  clouds  are  changing 
To  dusky  gray. 

The  broad  moon  like  a golden  shield  is  lifted 
O’er  yonder  height; 

The  rippling  lake  ’neath  her  bright  beams  is  flashing 
With  tremulous  light. 

The  little  birds  their  vesper  hymns  are  singing. 

And  loud  and  shrill 

From  yonder  covert’s  dusky  shade  is  calling 
The  whippoorwill. 

Then  one  by  one  the  stars  shine  forth  in  heaven, 
And  night  is  here; 

And  a sweet  calm  with  the  still  dew  is  falling 
Both  far  and  near. 

Lo,  a sweet  peace  comes  to  my  storm-tossed  spirit, 
A sense  of  rest, 

As  if  the  soul  of  this  sweet  eve  had  entered 
My  troubled  breast. 


36 


POEMS . 


No  more  the  tumult  of  wild  thoug’hts  is  surging* 
Within  my  mind, 

With  restless  strivings,  vague  aspirings,  longings 
All  undefined. 

And  so  afar  from  yonder  blue  expanses 
Of  heaven  above, 

A gentle  voice  seems  whispering  to  my  soul  a message 
Of  pitying  love. 

A blest  assurance  by  my  dim  discerning 
But  vaguely  guessed, 

That  though  my  way  is  dark  there’s  one  controls  it 
That  knoweth  best. 

And  that  sometime  the  dark  path  I am  treading 
Must  turn  to  light, 

And  the  great  glory  of  the  morning  banish 
The  shades  of  night. 


DEJECTION. 


O God,  that  I might  die  to-night; 

That  I could  close  mine  eyes  and  know 
Yon  golden  sunset’s  glimmering  glow 
Would  fade  for  me  in  endless  night. 
That  ere  again  the  morning  bright 
With  rosy  radiance  bathes  the  skies 


POEMS. 


37 


I should  lie  still  with  fast  closed  eyes 
That  ne'er  might  open  to  the  light. 

Could  I but  turn  my  wearied  eye 
Where  the  lake's  silver  mirror  shines, 
And  bordered  deep  with  sombre  pines 
The  silent  mountains,  dark  and  high, 

Are  lifted  'gainst  the  glowing  sky. 

And  say:  “O  God,  thy  world  is  fair. 

Yet  heavy  is  the  yoke  I bear; 

Oh,  let  me  now  in  quiet  lie  ” 

So  laying  down  my  load  of  sin, 

And  looking  up  in  simple  trust 
To  Thee  that  know  I am  but  dust, 

And  seeth  all  without,  within; 

At  length  my  storm-tossed  soul  may  win 
The  haven  of  eternal  rest, 

Where  [ may  lie  supremely  blest 
Beyond  the  reach  of  earthly  din. 

I am  aweary;  let  me  sleep, 

While  nature,  like  a mother  mild, 
Watching  in  patience  o'er  her  child, 
Shall  guard  my  slumber,  long  and  deep; 
As  o’er  my  low  couch  mosses  creep 
And  lovely  flowers  in  beauty  grow, 

And  summer  breezes  murmur  low, 

Or  silver  showers  in  pity  weep. 

O Father,  look,  and  pity  me; 

Too  heavy  is  my  burden  here. 

My  life  is  lonely  all  and  drear, 


38 


POEMS. 


Oil,  let  me  now  its  ending  see. 

In  thy  great  mercy  send  to  me 

Thy  pitying  angel,  sweet  and  fair, 
Soft  winging  through  the  crystal  air 
To  set  me  from  earth’s  bondage  free. 


COMPENSATION. 


Because  my  life  is  cold  and  drear, 
Because  in  hopeless  anguish  here 
I wander,  void  of  any  cheer, 

I am  so  miserable. 

Because  none  heed  my  bitter  cry, 
Because  with  scorpion  stings  men  try 
To  goad  me  on  that  I should  die, 

I am  so  miserable. 

Because  I seem  to  live  in  vain 
In  spite  of  all  my  toil  and  pain, 
And  agony  of  heart  and  brain, 

I am  so  miserable. 


Because  in  sunset’s  gorgeous  show, 
And  morning’s  tender  rosy  glow. 
And  noontide  glorj — joy,  I know, 
I am  not  miserable. 


POEMS . 


39 


Because  the  purple  vault  of  night 
Ablaze  with  countless  orbs  of  light 
Wakes  in  me  ever  new  delight, 

I am  not  miserable. 

Because  the  moonlight,  sweet  and  pale, 

That  spreads  o’er  earth  its  silver  veil, 

Can  bring  a peace  that  may  not  fail, 

I am  not  miserable. 

Because  the  rainbow  in  the  sky 
Wakes  in  me  aspirations  high, 

And  glorious  dreams  that  cannot  die, 

I am  not  miserable. 

Because  the  simplest  flower  that  blows 
Hath  power  to  give  my  heart  repose, 

And  banish  thought  of  all  life’s  woes, 

I am  not  miserable. 

Because  the  merry  woodbird’s  lay, 

And  murmuring  breeze  and  streamlet’s  play 
Wake  in  me  kindred  melody, 

I am  not  miserable. 

Because  all  nature  wears  for  me 
A smile  of  sweet  benignity, 

And  I her  finer  graces  see, 

I am  not  miserable. 

Because  I have  the  power  to  hold 
Communion  wi  h the  great  of  old, 

Who  to  me  higher  truths  unfold, 

I am  not  miserable. 


40 


POEMS. 


Because  my  spirit,  like  a fire, 

Still  soaring  up  with  strong  desire, 
Doth  to  a nobler  height  aspire, 

I am  not  miserable. 


ASPIRATION. 


I am  struggling  upward  into  the  light, 

As  a flower  towards  the  sun. 

Struggling  up  through  the  gloom  of  night. 
Struggling  upward  into  the  light, 

Into  the  light  of  the  sun. 

Around  me  the  morning  mists  hang  gray, 

But  above  me  I see  the  sunbeams  play, 

As  I struggle  up  on  my  dreary  way, 

Upward  into  the  light  of  day. 

I am  struggling  up  in  the  light  of  truth, 
Leaving  the  mists  of  the  past  behind, 
Leaving  the  dreams  of  golden  youth 

And  earthly  shadows  that  cloud  the  mind. 
My  feet  by  the  rocks  are  bruised  and  torn, 
And  my  spirit  struggleth  faint  and  worn; 

But  I see  before  me  the  blessed  bourne 
And  the  glorious  light  of  the  breaking  morn. 


POEMS. 


41 


A.  PRAYER. 


Thou  knowest  all,  without,  within! 

Each  open  fault  and  secret  sin 
Is  ever  present  to  thy  sight, 

Since  in  the  darkness  as  the  light. 

The  record  of  my  inmost  soul 
To  thee  is  as  an  open  scroll. 

Therefore  I come,  and  make  no  plea 
But  simply  put  my  trust  in  thee, 

Knowing  thy  pitying  love  is  strong 
Enough  to  pardon  all  my  wrong; 

For  thou  art  as  a parent  mild 
In  mercy  towards  an  erring  child. 

And  vet  I would  not  bid  thee  spare 
One  pang  that  thou  wouldst  have  me  bear. 
Happy  am  I if  all  the  woe 
And  anguish  of  my  life  below 
May  purge  my  soul,  as  in  a fire, 

Of  lawless  lust  and  vain  desire. 

Till,  even  as  a soul  new-born 
I reach  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

I only  ask  thy  hand  to  guide, 

Thy  gracious  presence  by  my  side; 

And  so,  in  joy  or  woe,  would  still 
With  strenuous  purpose  do  thy  will, 

My  tasks  perform,  my  burdens  bear, 


1 


42 


POEMS . 


And  climbing  duty’s  rugged  stair, 
Can  see  it  ever  grow  more  bright 
And  know  it  ends  in  perfect  light. 


WHO  WILL  LEAD  IVLH? 


Oh,  who  will  lead  me  upward  toward  the  light. 
Oh,  who  will  stoop  from  yonder  glittering  steep 
Where  flame  the  golden  splendors  of  the  morn, 
And  lead  me  upward  to  the  gates  of  day? 

I languish  here  amid  the  shades  of  night, 

My  wayward  feet  can  scarce  the  pathway  keep, 
With  strivings  vain  my  soul  is  overworn. 

Oh,  who  will  guide  me  ever  lest  I stray. 

Beyond  the  glimmering  summits  high  o’erhead 
The  hills  of  glory  open  to  my  view, 

Dawn’s  rosy  banners  stream  across  the  sky, 

The  golden  sunshine  bathes  the  crystal  walls. 
Beside  the  upward  pathway  I must  tread 
Celestial  roses  bloom  impearled  with  dew, 

And  pealing  from  the  gleaming  slopes  on  high 
A mighty  voice  my  spirit  upward  calls. 

Around  I hear  the  whir  of  angels’  wings 
And  see  their  glistening  silver  raiments  shine; 
I mark  with  eager  eyes  their  distant  flight, 


POEMS. 


43 


With  yearning  strong  their  nobler  strength  to  know 
And  quaff  with  them  the  Lethian  stream  that  springs 
’Mid  fadeless  blooms  beside  the  throne  divine, 

To  leave  with  crystal  tide  the  fields  of  light, 

Running  o’er  sands  of  gold  with  tuneful  flow. 

But  still  the  mists  of  doubt  encompass  me, 

The  way  is  rough  and  steep,  I faint  and  fail; 

In  weakness  pierced  with  thorns  and  bruised  with  stones 
And  struggling  ’neath  my  load  of  woe  and  sin. 

Let  me  not  be  forsaken  utterly, 

In  blindness  groping  through  this  dreary  vale 
With  sighs  and  tears  and  agonizing  groans 
Towards  the  goal  I scarce  my  hopes  to  win. 

O God!  I know  my  weakness  and  thy  strength; 

Then  grant  to  me  of  all  thy  glorious  throng 
Of  angels,  one  to  guide  me  and  sustain. 

That  I may  find  and  keep  the  better  way; 

And  so  supported  ever  may  at  length, 

Still  striving  with  a purpose  true  and  strong 
But  spent  no  more  with  struggles  fierce  and  vain, 
Through  yon  bright  portals  pass  to  endless  day. 


\/LY  FLOWER. 


The  good  God  gave  into  my  trembling  hand 
A floweret  bathed  in  dews  of  Paradise, 

That  I might  love  and  cherish  as  mine  own. 


44 


POEMS. 


I pressed  soft  kisses  on  its  petals  fair, 

And  tended  it,  and  watered  it  with  tears, 

But  it  was  all  too  fair  and  frail  to  thrive 
On  this  cold  earth,  and  ever  drooped  and  paled, 
And  at  the  last  an  angel  from  the  skies 
Descending,  plucked  the  blossom  from  the  flower, 
And  left  to  me  the  bare  and  withering  stem. 

O’er  this  I wept,  then  laid  it  in  the  dust 
And  planted  over  it  earth’s  fairest  flowers. 

Sweet  violets,  and  roses  red  and  white. 

And  silver  lilies,  that  they  might  remind 
Me  ever  of  its  bloom  and  fragrance  gone. 

I know  not  why  the  Lord  so  soon  reclaimed 
His  gift,  unless  it  was  that  I might  thus 
More  surely  tread  the  rough  and  narrow  way 
That  leads  me  upward  to  the  blessed  bourne 
For  when  I enter  at  the  pearly  gates 
And  peace  upon  the  golden  strand  beside 
The  crystal  river,  in  those  fields  of  light, 

Among  immortal  blooms  shall  I behold 
My  flower  once  more,  in  a new  loveliness, 

Sunned  in  the  glory  of  God’s  perfect  day. 

Then  I will  gather  it,  and  ever  wear 
The  blossom  never-fading  on  my  breast; 

And  when  I join  the  glorious,  shining  throng 
Of  holy  angels,  clothed  in  light  and  crowned 
With  amaranth  and  gold,  that  round,  the  throne 
Strike  jeweled  harps  and  sing  with  sweet  accord 
Loud  hallelujahs,  I will  lift  my  voice 
In  glad  thanksgiving  that  the  flower  I mourned 
As  lost  on  earth,  is  found,  at  last,  in  heaven. 


POEMS . 


45 


THE  SERAPHS. 

Methought  that  once  at  the  still  midnight  hour 
I from  deep  sleep  awakened;  and  behold, 

Asudden  through  the  dusky  chamber  shone, 

A rich,  rare  radiance,  as  on  summer  dawns 
The  sun  slow  rising  through  a bank  of  shade 
The  whole  wide  earth  in  golden  glory  bathes. 
Then  all  the  air  was  filled  with  odors  sweet, 

As  from  the  perfume  of  a thousand  flowers; 

And  as  I lay  and  wondered,  straight  appeared 
Two  glorious,  shining  angels.  They  were  clad 
In  glistening  pearly  garments;  round  their  brows 
Were  wreaths  of  fairest  amaranth  entwined 
With  burning  stars.  One  held  a golden  scroll, 
The  other,  one  of  silver.  And  I was  made  aware 
That  he  that  held  the  golden  tablets  wrote 
A record  of  my  higher  thoughts  and  purposes — 
My  pity  for  the  sorrowing  and  oppressed; 

My  kindly  deeds,  my  love  of  truth  and  right; 

My  scorn  of  selfish  aims  and  vain  pretense. 

But  he  that  bore  the  silver  scroll,  inscribed 
The  history  of  my  sins  and  weaknesses — 

My  indolence,  my  passion  and  my  pride; 

My  hatred  and  mistrust,  my  doubts  and  fears, 
Lost  opportunities  and  misspent  time. 

And,  as  he  wrote,  methought  a pearly  tear 
Dropped  on  the  woeful  record.  Then,  my  soul 
O’ercome  with  sorrow  deep,  aloud  I cried, 

“Is  there  no  hope?”  The  angels  slowly  raised 


46 


POEMS. 


Their  shining  faces,  fixed  their  beaming  eyes 
On  mine,  and  answered  sweetly,  ‘‘God  is  Love!'5 

So,  with  a strain  of  wondrous  music,  passed 
The  beauteous  vision;  and  alone  I saw 
The  moonlight  in  a flood  of  silver  flame 
Shining  on  wall  and  ceiling.  Then  I turned 
My  face  away  with  spirit  all  composed, 

And  peaceful  slumber  straight  my  senses  sealed. 


THE  MEETING  OK  SUMMER  AND 
AUTUMN. 


Two  spirits  meet  on  yonder  heaven-kissed  height6 
As  shines  the  rosy  morning  on  the  hills. 

The  one — with  locks  like  sunbeams,  and  a face 
Bright  but  not  dazzling,  like  the  beamy  moon; 

Half  veiled  in  golden  cloud,  about  her  brow 
A wreath  of  silver  lilies,  in  her  hand 
A sheaf  of  golden  grain,  and  at  her  feet 
Scattered  all  bright-hued  flowers — still  lingereth  there 
Upon  the  purple  mountain’s  gleaming  crown 
Loth  to  depart.  The  other  swiftly  comes 
Arrayed  in  splendor  like  an  Eastern  queen. 

Beneath  her  feet  the  running  woodbine  burns 
With  ruddy  flame,  the  ash  and  poplar  shower 


POEMS. 


Their  golden  leaves  upon  her,  while  the  oak 
His  scarlet  mantle  dons,  and  maples  flame 
In  robes  of  crimson,  bordered  deep  with  gold. 

These  spirits  meet  and  kiss;  and  all  the  air 
Is  filled  with  blended  odors  strangely  sweet, 

As  from  a perfumed  censor,  lightly  swung 
By  angels  far  in  yon  unfathamed  blue. 

A mystic  glory  clothes  the  earth;  the  still  lake  lies 
A burnished  silver  mirror,  each  bright  leaf 
Glowing  reflected  in  its  shining  face, 

While  nature's  myriad  children  fondly  bid 
Farewell  to  lovely  Summer’s  wondrous  charms, 

And  hail  with  gladness  Autumn’s  pomp  and  pride. 


\l  V LOVE. 


Across  the  hills  she  trips  along, 

The  sunshine  on  her  golden  hair; 

With  ringing  laugh  and  merry  song, 

As  blithe  as  morning  and  as  fair. 

Beneath  her  jaunty  hat,  her  face 
Mingling  the  lily  and  the  rose, 

Keplete  with  every  living  grace, 

In  blooming  health  and  beauty  glows. 


48 


POEMS. 


The  very  flowerets  seem  more  fair 
That  blossom  ’neath  her  fairy  feet; 

A brighter  glory  all  things  wear, 

The  dewy  morning  seems  more  sweet. 

I wonder  if  she  dreams  that  I 
Am  waiting  for  her  at  the  gate, 

To  greet  her  as  she  passes  by 
And  tell  my  love  and  know  my  fate; 

If  1 may  take  her  little  hand, 

And,  emblem  of  love’s  perfect  bliss, 

Slip  lightly  on  this  golden  band, 

And  seal  our  promise  with  a kiss; 

And  press  her  fondly  to  my  breast 
And  know  her  henceforth  all  my  own, 

My  love,  the  dearest  and  the  best, 

The  sweetest  maiden  earth  hath  known. 

Then  whatsoever  loss  I know 
I cannot  be  of  hope  bereft, 

Nor  wholly  yield  my  heart  to  woe, 

Since  love,  earth’s  sweetest  joy,  is  left. 


POEMS. 


THOU  AND  I. 


I am  the  mountain  spire, 

And  thou  the  sunbeam  on  me  glittering, 

Flooding  my  rugged  heights  with  heavenly  fire, 

Till  o’er  the  dreary  wastes  the  wild  flowers  spring, 
And  all  the  merry  songbirds  soar  and  sing. 

I am  the  lowly  earth; 

And  thou  the  pure,  ethereal  atmosphere, 

A rarer  element  of  heavenly  birth; 

Yet  to  me,  dark  and  sin-stained,  clinging  near, 

As  through  thy  crystal  shines  God’s  glory  clear. 

I am  the  boisterous  sea, 

And  thou  the  gentle,  lovely,  radiant  moon, 

That  with  divine  effulgence  beams  on  me, 

While  I do  in  thy  glistening  splendors  swoon, 

And  thy  bright  course  must  follow  late  or  soon. 

I am  the  sighing  breeze, 

And  thou  the  rich-hued,  fragrant,  blossoming  flower, 
My  weary  plaint  changing  to  ecstasies, 

As  with  thine  odorous  breath  thou  dost  o’erpower 
Earth’s  taint,  and  with  thy  soul  dost  me  endower. 

I am  the  instrument, 

And  thou  the  gifted  master-hand  that  wakes 
In  me  divinest  music  sweetly  blent; 

By  thee  inspired  its  bonds  my  spirit  breaks, 

And  with  thine  own  a higher  power  partakes. 


50 


POEMS. 


I am  a sinful  man; 

And  thou  my  guardian  angel  sent  to  guide 
My  wayward  footsteps  up  through  life’s  brief  span 
In  light  and  shadow  to  the  brighter  side, 

Where  dwell  enraptured  spirits  glorified. 


TO  A LADY. 


As  one  who  in  the  silent  night 
A dulcet  strain  of  music  hears, 

And  though  his  eyes  be  dim  with  tears 
Feels  his  heart  thrilled  with  strange  delight; 

As  when  upon  a day  of  storm, 

Through  rifted  clouds,  we  see  the  light 
Of  sunshine  changing  dark  to  blight, 

And  making  chilly  dampness  warm; 

Or  when  the  clouds  have  wept  all  day, 

Like  souls  in  pain  their  showery  tears, 

The  rainbow  in  the  east  appears, 

And  sunset  splendors  make  them  gay; 

So  oft  I think  a kindly  thought 
From  one  whom  we  regard  a friend, 

Hath  power  to  put  to  grief  an  end, 

And  cheer  the  heart  with  sadness  fraught. 


POEMS. 


51 


Then  may  this  simple  rhyme  of  mine 
That  on  thy  virgin  page  I trace, 

Through  all  thy  future  have  a grace 
To  solace  every  pang  that’s  thine. 

Through  all  the  chances  thou  shalt  see, 
Through  all  the  changing  scenes  of  life, 
Through  all  its  anguish,  care  and  strife, 
May  this  a precious  amulet  be. 

For  ’tis  an  utterance  from  the  heart 
Of  one  whose  memory  paints  thy  face 
So  time  can  ne’er  its  lines  efface, 

Not  mar  the  joy  its  charms  impart. 


THE  LOVER’S  WATCH. 


Blow  gently,  summer  breezes,  blow, 

Breathe  through  her  casement  sweet  and  low, 
And  through  her  chamber  waft  the  scent 
Of  blossoming  rose  or  mignonette; 

Until  in  dreams  perchance  she’ll  sail 
Among  the  spicy  Indian  isles 
Where  bright  eternal  summer  smiles. 

Then  she  mayhap  might  fancy  me 
Companion  on  the  summer  sea, 


52 


POEMS. 


Wafted  with  her  by  favoring  gales 
In  fairy  bark  with  silken  sails, 

To  regions  fair  of  tropic  calm 
Where  stately  grows  the  feathery  palm; 

And  brightly  show  strange  fruits  and  flowers 
Among  the  ever  blossoming  bowers 
Where  with  the  sunshine’s  glory  bright, 

The  very  air  seems  made  of  light. 

May  such  sweet  dreams  her  sleep  attend, 
And  angels  blest  her  soul  defend. 

As  I do  here  my  love-watch  keep 
While  she  lies  wrapped  in  slumbers  deep; 
And  ever  from  the  peaceful  skies 
The  bright  stars  beam  like  angels’  eyes, 

And  with  a music  sweet  and  low 
The  midnight  breezes  soitly  blow. 


THE  BELLS. 


Ring  gladly,  golden-throated  bells, 

My  heart  with  eager  rapture  swells; 
Ring  glad  and  free,  with  merry  chime, 
My  pulses  to  your  peals  keep  time; 
With  bounding  step  I haste  away, 

My  love  hath  named  our  wedding  day. 

Ring  sadly,  golden-throated  bells. 

My  heart  with  heavy  anguish  swells; 


POEMS. 


53 


Toll  with  deep  throbbings,  sad  and  slow, 
As  suits  my  mood  of  hopeless  woe; 

For  late  I saw  my  loved  one  lie 
With  dead  face  lifted  to  the  sky. 


RECOLLECTION. 


Still,  O love,  my  heart  with  fondest  yearning, 
Through  mists  of  time  must  look  again  to  thee, 

Still  my  memory  to  the  past  returning. 

Among  the  scenes  long  past  away,  will  be. 

Again  in  dreams  I hear  the  brooklets  singing, 

Again  I see  the  woods  and  fields  in  bloom; 

Again  thine  arm  in  mine  is  lightly  clinging, 

While  all  the  air  is  breathing  sweet  perfume. 

Again  I murmur  low  love’s  tender  story, 

While  brightly  streams  the  sunshine’s  golden  rain; 

And  over  all  the  earth  a mystic  glory 

Transfigures  mountain,  valley,  hill  and  plain. 

Oh,  tender  memories  sweet  my  bosom  thrilling 
With  the  fond  raptures  of  young  hope  and  love; 

All  my  dark  life  with  glorious  fancies  filling, 

I prize  ye  far  all  other  joys  above. 


54 


POEMS . 


And  thou,  dear  love,  though  low  thy  form  is  sleeping 
Beneath  the  village  churchyard’s  flower-strewn  mould, 
I know  thy  spirit  still  a watch  is  keeping 
O’er  mine  as  fondly  as  in  days  of  old. 


AN  INVOCATION. 


Come  to  me.  love,  from  the  dark  unknown, 
Hover  on  silvery  pinions  fair 
Softly  through  crystal  fields  of  air, 

And  speak  to  my  heart  with  a spirit’s  tone. 

Though  the  ear  of  flesh  be  weak  to  hear 
Thy  voice  atuned  to  the  seraphs’  speech, 

Yet  far,  faint  murmurs  at  least  may  reach 
The  soul  with  a whisper  of  better  cheer. 

Though  thy  fair  sweet  features  I may  not  see, 
Nor  thy  pearly  glistening  raiment’s  sheen, 

I can  feel  thy  presence,  although  unseen, 

By  the  touch  of  the  spirit’s  sympathy. 

So  I sit  alone  in  the  gloom  and  sigh 
Over  wasted  purpose  and  vain  resolve, 

And  the  deep-hid  riddles  I may  not  solve 
Until  hope  and  reason  within  me  die. 

Woe,  sin  and  sorrow  oppress  me  here, 

And  doubt  besets  when  X strive  to  see 


POEMS. 


55 


The  glorious  promise  of  joys  to  be 
In  realms  of  light  ’yond  earths  desert  dreai. 

Then  come  to  me,  love,  let  me  feel  thee  near 
With  a sense  of  holy  and  blissful  calm, 

To  my  wounded  spirit  a touch  like  balm 
And  a blest  assurance  to  cast  out  fear. 

So  ’mid  all  life’s  cares  I may  feel  at  last 
New  strength  to  battle,  new  strength  to  dare, 
The  grace  in  patience  my  loads  to  bear, 

And  sweet  hope  of  a future  when  life  is  passed. 


SORROW. 

Whence  art  thou,  spectre,  that  with  set  white  face 
Ever  confronteth  me? 

Close  by  my  side  at  every  time  and  place 
Thy  form  of  dread  I see. 

I hear  thy  voice  in  mournful  winds  that  moan 
Beneath  the  leaden  skies; 

I wake  with  shuddering  at  the  midnight  lone 
To  watch  thy  burning  eyes; 

And  when  bright  waters  flash  and  sweet  birds  sing 
Among  bright  blossoming  bowers, 

Still  straight  before  me  like  an  evil  thing 
Thine  awful  presence  lowers. 


56 


POEMS. 


No  need  is  there  that  at  my  festal  board 
Symbols  of  death  I set. 

For  of  each  scene  of  pleasure  thou  art  lord, 

Nor  will  thy  state  neglect. 

And  though  I shrink  from  thy  fell  presence  near, 
I may  not  say  “Begone,” 

For  I must  ever  hold  surpassing  dear 
Thy  features  pale  and  wan. 

Since  in  thy  ghastly  lineaments  I mark 
Likeness  to  the  sweet  face 

Of  one  who  passed  beyond  the  shadows  dark 
Unto  death’s  silent  place. 

And  so  I hold  thee  as  an  honored  guest 
Through  all  the  weary  years, 

Until  the  time  shall  come  when  I shall  rest 
Free  from  all  hopes  and  fears. 

The  brimming  chalice  of  sweet  memory 
Full  oft  with  thee  I drain, 

The  true  napanthe  that  hath  power  alway 
To  soothe  grief’s  bitter  pain. 

I can  but  think  a minister  thou  art 
Whom  pitying  Heaven  hath  sent. 

To  lead  me  from  the  ways  of  sin  apart 
In  paths  of  sweet  content; 

That  when  at  last  arrayed  in  robes  of  light 
My  lost  love  comes  to  me, 

And  bears  within  her  hand  the  lily  white 
Of  heavenly  purity, 


POEMS. 


57 


I my  be  worthy  found  to  enter  straight 
With  her  those  regions  fair, 

Where  all  high  joys  the  raptured  spirit  wait, 
And  grace  beyond  compare. 

Where  the  sweet  waters  of  the  fount  of  peace 
Well -from.  the  sands  of  gold, 

And  sorrow  is  no  more,  and  ne’er  shall  cease 
The  round  of  bliss  untold. 


A MEMORY. 


I kissed  and  kissed  her  rose-red  lips, 

I pressed  her  warm,  soft  cheek  to  mine, 

I whispered,  “Be  my  love,  my  bride,” 
She  answered,  “Dearest,  I am  thine.” 
The  glory  faded  from  the  west, 

And  o’er  the  mountain’s  purple  brim 
The  broad  moon  showed  her  golden  rim, 
Then  lit  the  lakelet’s  rippling  breast. 

The  scent  of  roses  filled  the  air, 

And  softly  summer’s  murmuring  breeze 
To  silvery  music  woke  the  waves, 

And  gently  whispered  through  the  trees, 
The  waters  kissed  the  pebbly  shore, 

And  in  the  moonlight’s  silver  beam 


58 


POEMS. 


Fair  as  an  angel’s  in  a dream 
Her  face  a heavenly  radiance  wore. 

And  so  we  wandered  far  away, 

Her  little  hand  was  clasped  in  mine, 

And  oft  I stooped  my  lips  to  hers 
And  stole  me  kisses  sweet  as  wine. 

Oh,  vision  of  that  golden  time, 

Thy  tender  memory  haunts  me  yet 
Like  cadence  one  cannot  forget 
Of  some  old  poet’s  melting  rhyme. 

I walk  alone  these  hills  to-night, 

As  fan  a moon  is  in  the  sky, 

And  glistening  ’neath  her  radiant  beams, 

As  bright  the  rippling  waters  lie; 

But  all  the  air  is  raw  and  chill, 

The  dead  leaves  patter  on  the  ground, 

And  evermore  with  mournful  sound 
The  sad  winds  moan  ’round  yonder  hill. 
And  the  hot  tears  well  to  mine  eyes 
To  think  of  her,  above  whose  grave 
The  mornful  autumn  breezes  wad, 

And  leafless  trees  their  branches  wave. 
Alas!  that  sad-eyed  Love  must  see 
His  idol  shattered  into  dust, 

And  know  how  weak  is  human  trust 
Where  Death  must  ever  monarch  be. 

But  well  that  Hope,  still  hovering  near, 

In  deepest  night  of  dark  despair 
Shows  ever  glimmering  through  the  gloom 
A blessed  promise  shining  fair. 


POEMS. 


59 


And  we  may  with  faith’s  vision  bright 
See  angels  sitting  by  the  tomb, 

Point  upward  to  the  blessed  home 
Where  ever  dwelleth  peace  and  light. 


AUTUMN  THOUGHTS. 


I wander  o’er  the  drear  November  hills, 

Beneath  the  silver  moon,  as  faintly  dies 
The  golden  sunset  glimmering  in  the  west; 

And  Hesperus,  the  radiant  star  of  love, 

Beams  forth  in  yonder  paling  sky. 

So  beautiful,  so  sad,  this  Autumn  eve  ! 

The  purple  mountains  and  the  gleaming  sky, 

The  full-orbed  moon  and  glistening  lake  where  falls 
Her  light,  and  breaks  in  showers  of  sparkling  gems. 
These  are  so  beautiful;  but,  oh!  so  sad,  so  sad, 

The  sombre  heights  around  me  bleak  and  bare, 

And  all  the  dreary  sights  and  sounds  that  tell 
Of  death  and  desolation  and  decay! 

Beneath  my  feet  the  dead  leaves,  crisp  and  sere, 
Make  mournful  rustling,  and  the  chill  wind  blows 
Across  the  lake  and  ’mongst  the  leafless  trees 
That  toss  their  boughs  and  moan  like  souls  in  pain; 
While  with  as  plaintive  murmur  ever  breaks 
The  long  light  ripple  on  the  rocky  shore. 


60 


POEMS. 


The  scalding  tear-drops  gather  in  mine  eyes, 

As  slow  I walk  these  drear  November  hills; 

I think  of  all  sad  things — I think  of  death, 

Of  pale,  sweet  faces  reft  of  all  their  bloom, 

And  lifted,  cold  and  rigid,  towards  the  skies; 

Of  the  loved  forms  that  molder  ’neath  the  sod, 

Whose  grassy  mounds  we  deck  with  bright-hued  flowers, 
And  on  whose  names  we  call  in  vain,  nor  catch 
Nor  hint  nor  whisper  from  the  dark  unknown. 

I think  of  bitter  partings,  of  fond  hearts 
Asunder  torn  by  Fate’s  relentless  power; 

Of  those  by  change  or  distance  severed,  each  one  still 
Yearning  to  press  again  the  other’s  hand, 

And  look  once  more  on  the  beloved  face. 

I think  of  boyhood’s  dreams,  of  youthful  hopes, 

As  fleeting  as  the  rainbow  in  the  cloud; 

Of  wasted  purposes,  of  vain  resolves, 

Of  useless  strivings  after  something  high. 

All  these  sad  thoughts  come  thronging  to  my  mind, 

As  slow  I wander  forth  this  Autumn  eve. 

Yet  still,  O silver  moon!  in  radiance  fair, 

Far  from  yon  purple  heaven’s  light  serene, 

Shines  on  the  cold  dark  earth  thy  beaming  ray; 

As  ever  on  my  life’s  waste  places  beams 
Thy  glory  fair,  divinest  poesy, 

And  fills  with  beauty  sorrow’s  darkest  night. 

Thus  far  I walk  and  muse  this  Autumn  eve, 

While  the  fair  moon  climbs  high  the  vaulted  sky, 

And  sad  and  chill  night’s  mournful  breezes  blow. 


POEMS. 


61 


LONGFELLOW.1 

Like  the  murmur  of  pleasant  breezes 
In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

Or  the  song  of  the  rippling  streamlets, 

O poet,  is  thy  pleasing  tune. 

It  comes  with  itsV  gentle  music 
’Micl  the  storm  and  stress  of  life, 

To  still  with  its  tuneful  murmurs 
The  noises  of  toil  and  strife. 

It  bringeth  all  sounds  of  summer; 

The  hum  of  swarming  bees, 

The  voice  of  seas  and  forests, 

And  the  sweet  birds’  melodies. 

All  nature’s  mystic  volume 
Lies  open  to  thy  ken, 

And  thou  knowest  well  the  secrets 
Of  the  marvelous  souls  of  men. 

Yet  no  rage  of  contending  passions 
Blend  in  thy  pleasant  strain; 

But  life’s  sweeter  and  holier  emotions 
Breathe  soft  through  its  sweet  refrain. 

So  where’er  thy  songs  are  scattered, 

In  every  gentle  heart, 

Thy  name  as  a hoarded  treasure 
Is  kept  as  a thing  apart, 


62 


POEMS . 


And  even  the  little  children 

Love  thy  sweet  and  tender  lays, 
And  lisp  with  childish  treble 
Their  tuneful  cadences. 

O poet,  grand,  yet  simple, 

Beloved  of  old  and  young, 

Than  thine  no  sweeter  numbers 
Hath  this  or  English  tongue. 

And  so  thy  melting  music 
For  ages  yet  to  be, 

Shall  wake  the  sounding  echoes 
Of  the  halls  of  memory. 


NIY  TWENTY-FIRST  BIRTHDAY. 


May  10th,  1878. 


How  swiftly  youth’s  bright  years  have  flown, 
From  hour  to  hour,  from  day  to  day, 

My  time  unheeded  slips  away 
And  leaves  me  with  the  past  alone. 

I see  the  seasons  come  and  go, 

Each  with  their  days  of  storm  and  light; 
Some  with  the  golden  sunshine  bright, 
And  others  dark  with  clouds  of  woe. 


POEMS. 


63 


Spring  with  new  leaves  and  opening  flowers, 
And  Summer  with  her  golden  sheaves, 

And  Autumn  who  with  glowing  leaves 
Bedecks  her  rainbow  tinted  bowers. 

Yet  though  the  years  have  brought  to  me 
No  common  share  of  grief  and  pain; 

And  but  a hopeless  strife  and  vain 
My  whole  short  life  hath  seemed  to  be; 

I do  not  murmur,  nor  repine, 

Since  in  earth’s  varied  beauties  fair 
I find  such  pleasure  sweet  and  rare 
As  thrills  my  soul  with  bliss  divine. 

And  so  I walk,  from  day  to  day, 

The  varying  round  of  life  alone, 

Grateful  for  all  the  joys  I’ve  known, 
Bearing  my  burdens  patiently. 

And  still  sweet  hopes  within  me  rise, 

That  somewhere  in  the  dark  before 
May  lie  a better  fate  in  store 
To  come  at  last  a sweet  surprise. 


POEMS . 


WAITING.8 


He  sailed  away  beneath  yon  glimmering  star, 

Afar  beyond  the  foam-flecked  harbor  bar 
Across  the  purple  sea; 

And  never  more;  ah,  never,  never  more 
My  love  comes  back  to  me! 

At  morn,  at  night,  at  noon,  and  twilight  dim, 

With  patient  heart  I wait  and  watch  for  him 
Beside  the  misty  sea; 

But  wait  in  vain,  for  never,  never  more 
My  love  comes  back  to  me! 

Break,  lovely  dawn,  and  bathe  in  rosy  light 

The  cold,  gray  cliffs;  blaze,  sun,  in  glory  bright 
Above  the  rippling  sea; 

I heed  ye  not,  for  never,  never  more 
My  love  comes  back  to  me! 

Fade,  glorious  sunset,  with  far  golden  gleam; 

Rise,  gentle  moon,  and  shine  with  silver  beam 
Upon  the  shimmering  sea; 

Why  should  I care?  since  never,  never  more 
My  love  comes  back  to  me! 

Yet  in  a realm  beyond  all  pain  and  care, 

"Mid  ever-blossoming  bowers  of  beauty  rare 
Beside  the  golden  sea, 

I know  he  dwells;  and  ever,  ever  more 
Both  watch  and  wait  for  me! 


POEMS. 


65 


And  soon  1 know  from  yon  far  gleaming  height 
Will  come  an  angel  fair  on  pinions  light 
Across  the  glittering  sea, 

And  bear  me  hence;  where  ever,  ever  more 
My  love  will  stay  with  me! 


PASSION. 


My  lady  smiles  upon  me 

With  a smile  so  sweet  and  rare; 

Her  eyes  are  blue  as  heaven, 

Like  the  sunshine’s  gold  her  hair. 

My  lady  can  coo  and  murmur 
In  a tender  undertone; 

But  my  lady’s  heart  within  her 
Is  cold  and  hard  as  stone. 

I know  the  fair  enchantress, 

I have  fathomed  all  her  wiles; 

I know  how  false  are  her  kisses, 

How  doubly  false  her  smiles. 

And  yet,  at  my  lady’s  bidding, 

I dance  in  my  silken  chains; 

Nor  sigh  for  my  once  prized  freedom 
While  the  wealth  of  her  smile  remains. 


66 


POEMS. 


I smile  with  mv  lady’s  pleasure, 

I sigh  when  my  lady  sighs; 

And  all  my  daylight  brightness 
I find  in  her  lustrous  eyes. 

But  I serve  for  her  serene  highness 
As  the  toy  of  a passing  hour; 

The  slave  of  her  wants  and  caprices, 
The  proof  of  her  beauty’s  power. 

Alas  for  a man’s  free  nature 
Bound  fast  in  so  weak  a thrall, 

To  give  for  so  poor  a gourdon 
His  life,  his  hope,  and  his  all! 


A CANADIAN  WINTER  NIGHT.  . 


How  bright  on  the  roofs  of  the  village  is  beaming  the 
silvery  moonlight! 

How  white  lies  the  covering  snow  over  all  the  landscape! 

It  lieth  in  glittering  heaps  in  the  streets,  it  is  spread 
o’er  the  fields  like  a mantle. 

As  a casing  of  purest  marble  it  heavily  covers  the  house- 
tops. 

And  transforms  the  most  common  things  into  wonders 
of  exquisite  beauty. 


POEMS. 


67 


The  frolic  winds  hath  tossed  it  about,  and  whirled  itdn 
eddies, 

Sweeping  it  far  over  valley  and  hill,  and  forest  and  river, 

And  filling  the  hollows,  and  covering  the  fences  and 
landmarks. 

But  now  it  lies  all  at  peace  with  the  moonlight  beaming 
upon  it, 

And  as  in  the  hush  of  death  the  form  of  some  beautiful 
maiden 

Lies  still  and  cold,  yet  fair,  with  the  glory  of  heaven 
upon  her, 

So  seems  the  earth;  as  the  moon  in  her  beauty  resplen- 
dent 

Slowly  sails  through  the  purple  sky  and  tinges  the  borders 

Of  fleecy  clouds  with  gold,  while  the  glittering  stars  near 
her  pathway 

Wax  pale  and  fade  in  the  light  of  her  glorious  presence. 


IN  MEMORIAM.9 


It  seems  so  strange  to  think  that  she  is  dead 
Who  but  a few  short  days  ago  was  full 
Of  lusty  life;  to  think  that  she  must  lie 
So  still,  whose  time  ran  glad  with  dance  and  song 
And  rippling  laughter  like  a mountain  brook. 

Who  would  have  dreamed  that  saw  her  in  the  flush 
Of  her  sweet  girlhood,  with  the  rose  of  health 
Upon  her  cheek,  it  sparkle  in  her  eye, 


68 


POEMS. 


A playful  smile  about  her  full  red  lips 
And  golden  light  upon  her  sunny  hair — 

That  she  so  soon  could  suffer  such  a change, 

That  death  should  come  and  with  his  icy  breath 
Should  blight  the  blossom  opening  to  the  sun, 

And  even  while  we  watched  it  in  its  growth 
And  thought  to  see  it  bloom  a stately  flower 
That  it  should  wither  on  the  stalk  away? 

JTis  scarce  two  weeks  since  she  was  full  of  life 
And  hope  and  joy.  Her  bounding  step 
Seemed  keeping  time  to  inward  melody; 

Her  merry  voice  rang  sweet  with  laugh  and  song 
From  morn  to  night.  Now  naught  remains  of  her 
But  this  poor  clay,  and  save  for  the  bright  hair 
About  her  marble  forehead,  who  would  know 
That  this  was  e’en  the  fragile  tenement 
That  held  her  lovely  spirit?  It  is  strange. 

So  very  strange.  She  was  so  young  to  die. 

And  had  so  much  to  live  for.  All  this  world 
Was  beautiful  to  her;  she  seemed  to  feel 
A joy  in  mere  existence.  Why  should  she 
Be  taken  in  the  morning  of  her  life 
W'hen  all  the  future  lay  in  dazzling  light 
Illumined  by  her  fancy’s  beaming  ray; 

While  on  this  earth  so  many  weary  souls 
Stagger  ’neath  heavy  loads,  or  writhe  in  pain, 

And  call  in  vain  on  death  to  set  them  free 
From  sin  and  care,  and  misery  and  woe? 


POEMS. 


69 


Oh,  we  will  miss  her;  often  we  will  look 
For  her  in  her  accustomed  place,  and  think 
She  will  be  coming  soon.  We  oft  will  list 
To  hear  the  rippling  music  of  her  laugh, 

Or  catch  the  echo  of  her  dancing  feet. 

Yet  when  we  think  what  she  would  have  to  bear 
If  she  had  lived;  when  we  reflect  on  all 
The  sin,  the  woe,  the  anguish  of  this  life — 

How  can  we  dare  to  wish  her  back  again? 

If  we  that  knew  her  but  a few  brief  weeks 
Can  deeply  grieve  for  her,  how  will  he  mourn 
Of  whose  dark  life  she  was  the  morning  star? 

And  yet  he  may  take  comfort  from  the  thought 
She  was  free  from  earthly  taint,  and  fit 
To  meet  her  Maker.  Even  in  the  sad 
And  bitter  anguish  of  her  parting  hour 
She  did  not  fear  to  die,  but  trusted  God 
And  only  prayed  she  might  be  taken  soon. 

Oh,  may  we  all  so  live,  that  when  we  tooi 
Shall  cross  death’s  chilly  flood,  we  may  not  shrink 
From  the  dark  mystery  beyond;  but  go 
With  such  a trusting  faith  in  God,  who  works 
Nothing  but  good.  So  may  our  vision  pierce 
The  veil  that  hides  them  from  our  mortal  view 
And  see  the  glories  of  the  world  to  come. 


70 


POEMS. 


A.  TRIBUTE. 


F.  It.  Calkins  Died  November  17th,  1878. 

Than  this  what  better  can  be  said 
Of  him  that  new  is  with  the  dead? 

He  was  most  manly,  good  and  true, 

And  all  did  love  him.  He  was  one 
Whose  soul  seemed  always  in  the  sun; 

A genial  nature’s  breadth  of  view 
Was  his,  and  wheresoe’er  he  went, 

To  all  remembrance  he  lent 
Where  love  and  gratitude  were  blent. 

So  all  that  knew  him  spake  his  praise, 

And  on  his  grave  for  many  days 
The  blossoms  of  regret  shall  bloom. 

The  record  of  his  pleasant  thought 
And  kindly  deeds  may  well  be  sought 
As  fit  inscription  for  his  tomb. 

Long  will  be  missed  in  every  place 
That  knew  him,  his  familiar  face 
And  figure  full  of  manly  grace. 

Though  in  the  flower  of  his  youth 
He  perished  long  his  manly  truth, 

And  converse  frank,  and  pleasing  smile, 
Will  be  in  memory  revered, 

By  those  whose  hearts  his  kindness  cheered 
Or  witty  sallies  did  beguile. 


POEMS. 


71 


The  world  will  never  hear  his  name; 

But  what  is  better  far  than  fame 
He  had,  a conscience  free  from  blame. 

But  those  who  bound  by  every  tie 
Of  love  and  kinship  saw  him  die, 

What  comfort  have  they  in  their  grief  ? 
What  cheer  has  she — the  one  who  died 
Held  dearer  than  all  else  beside— 

Save  only  this,  his  own  belief, 

That  he  has  only  gone  before, 

And  when  this  fleeting  life  is  o’er 
They’ll  meet  where  partings  are  no  more? 

And  though  I could  not  call  him  friend, 
His  being  ne’er  with  mine  did  blend, 
Bound  with  affections  golden  band; 

Yet  still  in  memory  I trace 
The  outline  of  his  pleasant  face; 

And  feel  the  pressure  of  his  hand. 

For  I have  felt  his  kindly  heat 
Of  manner  when  we  chanced  to  meet 
With  friendly  greeting  in  the  street. 

Therefore  I now  would  fondly  crave 
The  right  to  lay  upon  his  grave 
This  simple  flower  of  poesy; 

Though  not  the  growth  of  perfect  art 
Its  roots  were  twined  about  my  heart; 
And  it  with  reverence  I lay 
In  earth  beside  his  lowly  tomb, 

Where  rooting  it  perchance  may  bloom, 
Or  fading  leave  a faint  perfume  1(y. 


72 


POEMS. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 
Died  June  12th,  1878. 


At  length,  O Death  ! thy  dart  hath  lowly  laid 
The  one  whose  fearless  hand  did  strip  from  thee 
Thy  shadowy  robes  of  terror,  and  disclosed 
Behind  thy  hideous  mask  an  angel’s  face. 

For  he  hath  passed  who  in  his  manhood’s  prime 
Gazed  down  the  darkened  vistas  of  the  tomb, 

And  there  saw  gently  brood  the  dove  of  peace, 
Bedecked  with  fragrant  flowers  and  crowned  with  bays,, 
His  silver  hair  a shining  aureole, 

He  seeks  his  chamber  in  thy  silent  halls. 

A long  life  and  a peaceful  end  were  his, 

The  good  old  man  about  whom  clustering  clung 
All  fond  remembrances;  for  not  alone 
In  that  his  song  like  a vast  river  flowed, 

With  ever  swelling  volume  grand  and  free 
Was  unto  him  our  highest  homage  paid. 

His  vas  the  reverence  which  all  men  accord 
To  an  exalted  mind  and  blameless  life; 

And  man  and  poet  a common  honor  shared. 

Therefore  the  snow-white  flowers  that  on  his  bier 
By  loving  hands  with  mute  caress  are  laid, 

Are  but  as  symbols  of  the  stainless  worth 
Of  his  high  nature  to  our  eyes  revealed 
In  the  long  years  he  dwelt  among  us  here. 

So  with  the  benisons  of  old  and  young 


POEMS . 


73 


He  passed  away;  and  even  tbou,  0 Death! 

With  gentle  touch  did  still  his  heaving  breast. 

The  wish  he  once  in  flowing  song  expressed 
Is  gratified;  for  now  in  flowery  June, 

When  all  the  rippling  streamlets  flash  and  sing, 
And  thrills  the  woodbirds’  silvery  melodies, 

He  goeth  to  his  last , long  resting-place. 

So  let  him  on  earth’s  fragrant  bosom  sleep 
Who  loved  so  truly  all  her  wondrous  charms. 

All  nature  seems  to  mourn  her  worshiper ; 

The  forest  trees  ’mongst  whom  he  fondly  strayed 
And  ever  found  a sweet  companionship 
Seem  as  in  loneliness  to  mourn  and  sigh; 

And  the  great  rivers’  mournful  requiems 
For  him  seem  chanting  as  they  sounding  flow. 


BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


Died  December  19th,  1878. 

Thou  sang  for  another  a funeral  song, 

Nor  dreamed  so  soon  to  thee 
With  his  summons  would  Death’s  angel  come 
As  to  him  across  the  sea!11 

Thou  hast  traced  the  desert’s  burning  sands,. 
Tbou  hast  tracked  the  Arctic  snows, 


74 


POEMS. 


And  sailed,  and  sailed  the  foaming  sea 
With  every  wind  that  blows. 

In  every  part  of  the  wide  earth 
Have  thy  feet  been  wont  to  roam; 

And  among  every  race  and  tribe 
Of  men  has  been  thy  home. 

But  now  thou  hast  gone  into  the  realm 
By  human  foot  untrod, 

To  explore  the  wondrous  mysteries 
Of  the  glorious  home  of  God. 

We  shall  miss  thy  pleasant  voice  on  earth, 
Blended  in  tuneful  song; 

Yet  still  its  echoes,  sweet  and  clear, 

Will  haunt  our  memories  long. 

For  thee,  O traveler  and  poet. 

Heaven’s  glories  now  unfold; 

And  the  sweet  song  thou  missed  on  earth 
Is  toned  to  harp  of  gold. 

From  age  to  age  thy  soul  shall  see 
New  wonders,  more  and  more; 

And  e’er  thy  song  with  grander  swell 
To  loftier  heights  shall  soar. 

For  through  the  boundless  realms  of  space, 
Thy  spirit  now  may  wing; 

And  thou  hast  learned  the  wondrous  song 
The  raptured  seraphs  sing. 


POEMS. 


75 


ODE  ON  "THE  DEATH  OE  PRESIDENT 
GARFIELD. 


September  19th,  1881. 


Why  breaks  that  solemn  sound 
On  midnight’s  hush  profound— 

The  toll  of  deep-toned  bells  ? 

To  every  heart  a quick  foreboding1  tells; 

As  welling  sad  and  slow, 

With  voice  of  almost  human  woe, 

Their  throbbing  tones  float  out  upon  the  air 
Until  the  silence  seems  to  breathe  a prayer. 

Gathering,  the  people  come, 

And  stand  with  sorrow  dumb, 

Or  speak  one  name  alone  with  labored  breath — 
The  name  of  him  the  land  hath  loved  so  well, 
Who  in  the  prime  of  life  untimely  fell, 

By  vile  assassin  smitten  unto  death. 

How  do  all  hearts  recall, 

How  on  the  July  sunshine  swift  did  fall 
O’er  all  the  land  a shadow  like  a pall; 

As  the  sad  tidings  thrilled  the  electric  wire, 
That  he,  our  chief,  had  fallen,  and  like  a fire 
Enkindling  rose  the  people’s  righteous  ire, 
Cursing  the  dastard  wretch  whose  causeless  hate 
Struck  basely  down  our  ruler,  wise  and  great. 
All  think  how,  day  by  day, 

Our  hero  on  his  couch  of  suffering  lay, 


76 


POEMS. 


And  held  the  grim  destroyer  long  at  bay; 

While  anxious  millions  watched  each  pulse’s  feverish  beat, 
And  poured  with  lavish  hand  their  treasure  at  his  feet. 

At  last,  at  last, 

The  blow  hath  fallen,  hope  is  past! 

Toll,  O bells!  To  all  the  land  the  mournful  tidings  bear: 
He  that  did  the  fiery  darts  of  war  withstand 
Lies  stricken  by  a weak  and  cowardly  hand! 

He  is  dead, 

The  evil  bolt  too  surely  sped! 

Toll,  toll! 

And  voice  the  universal  woe, 

Our  noble  ruler  lieth  low! 

No  need  is  there  to  bid  the  people  mourn, 

For  every  heart  is  with  deep  anguish  torn; 

Since  this  was  he,  the  people’s  choice. 

Elected  by  the  people’s  voice, 

To  rule  the  great  States’  destinies. 

The  man  none  knew  except  to  praise, 

The  scholar  ripe  and  sound, 

The  statesman  wise  of  thought  profound, 

The  orator  whose  words  of  fire 
Hid  holy  zeal  for  truth  inspire, 

The  warrior  whose  sword  quickly  leapt  to  light 
To  serve  the  cause  of  justice  and  of  right. 

Such  was  he,  as  pure  in  heart,  as  sound  in  mind, 

N’er  too  lofty  to  be  kind. 

Such  was  he,  beloved  by  high  and  low, 

The  truest  friend,  the  noblest  foe, 

The  tender  father,  faithful  husband,  loving  son. 


POEMS. 


11 


His  earthly  race  is  run; 

Yet  rests  he  now,  sure  of  unfading  bays, 

Crowned  with  a loyal  people’s  sacred  memories. 

We  reverenced  the  man  and  not  his  high  degree, 

For  e’en  the  poorest  could  in  liim  a brother  see, 
Since  he  hath  taught  and  shown  the  conscious  power 
Of  manhood  is  an  all  sufficient  dower. 


To  no  accident  of  birth 

He  owed  his  lofty  place  on  earth; 

But  did  the  glorious  height  attain 
Through  steady  toil  of  hand  and  brain. 

To  him  all  laurels  came  unsought. 

He  never  earthly  place  with  honor  bought; 

But  ever  through  his  life  the  rugged  way 
Of  duty  did  he  follow  day  by  day. 

He  freely  lent  his  service  and  his  life 
To  aid  his  country  in  her  hour  of  strife; 

Yet  put  aside  War’s  wreath  of  higa  renown 
When  called  by  Duty’s  voice  to  lay  it  down. 
His  voice  in  the  great  nation’s  counsel  hall 
Rang  ever  like  a mighty  clarion’s  call; 

And,  with  the  power  of  high  conviction  strong. 
Spoke  boldly  for  the  right,  agamst  the  wrong. 
So  stood  he  firm  amid  the  shock 
Of  warring  factions,  like  a rock; 

’Mid  the  fierce  fire  of  calumny 
He  walked  as  walked  the  faithful  three; 

And  through  the  fiery  furnace  came 
Unscathed,  nor  bore  the  scent  of  flame. 

Thus,  following  the  far-reaching  light 


78 


POEMS. 


Of  noble  aims,  be  scaled  the  height, 

From  which  he  saw  the  promised  land  disclose 
Its  varied  prospect,  blossoming  like  the  rose; 

But  e’er  his  feet  its  smiling  valley  trod, 

His  soaring  spirit  was  recalled  to  God. 

Alas!  that  we  must  mourn 

His  loss,  whose  hand  was  firm  to  guide  the  Ship  of  State 
Thro’  raging  winds,  o’er  treacherous  seas! 

How  can  it  seem  aught  but  relentless  fate 

Which  snatched  from  earth  a soul  of  such  high  destinies 

With  all  its  glorious  promise  unfulfilled? 

Yet  must  we  we  deem  it  best,  for  so  God  willed. 

Let  us  knee1, 

And  put  in  words  the  grief  we  feel; 

Yet  bow  in  meek  submission  to  His  will 
Who,  while  he  chasteneth,  loveth  still; 

Who  leads  us  upward  still  by  devious  ways, 

And  turneth  even  the  wrath  of  man  to  praise! 

Help  us,  O God,  to  think  it  well! 

Help  us  to  say,  “Thy  will  be  done!'5 

For,  while  all  our  hearts  with  this  great  anguish  swell, 

Behind  the  clouds  we  cannot  see  the  sun. 

But  though  we  hear  Faith’s  voice  speak  full  and  clear, 
And  bid  us  trust  thee  still  and  have  no  fear, 

Oh,  leave  us  still  the  solace  of  our  grief ! 

Still  let  us  mourn  above  our  fallen  chief  ! 

Let  the  loud  cannon’s  roar 
Proclaim  his  loss  from  shore  to  shore! 

Still  let  the  solemn  bells  be  tolled! 


POEMS . 


79 


Let  every  home  the  weeds  of  mourning  show; 

And  the  people,  with  deep  anguish  bowed,  behold 
Across  the  land  the  mournful  pageant  sweep, 

Bearing  that  sacred  form  locked  in  eternal  sleep, 

By  the  vast  northern  lake  to  lay  it  low. 

’Tis  meet  that  we  to  him  all  honor  pay, 

Who  served  the  land  so  long  and  faithfully; 

Who  bore  so  long  for  us  the  heavy  cross  of  pain, 

And  did  for  us  at  last  Death’s  bitter  chalice  drain. 

’Neath  no  sky-mocking  dome, 

Nor  stately  minster’s  fretted  roof, 

Beside  the  bones  of  mighty  kings, 

Where  through  the  stained  panes  a glory  shed 
Shines  on  the  rich  armorial  blazonings, 

We  lay  our  honored  dead; 

But  still,  as  fair  mausoleums 

We  build,  which  shall  not  crumble  nor  decay, 

In  the  great  nation’s  halls  of  memory. 

There  the  rich  treasures  of  our  love  we  tribute  bring. 

And  round  each  hallowed  shrine 

The  fragrant  blossoms  of  remembrance  twine. 

And  by  whom  hath  a higher  place  been  won? 

Who  on  his  tomb  should  fairer  garlands  bear 
Than  him  we  mourn  to-day,  our  best  loved  one, 

Who  fell  in  the  full  pride  of  manhood  fair,  1 

His  glorious  lifework  yet  but  just  begun? 

Once  more,  his  mother  State,  to  thee 
Beturns  thy  noblest  son. 

His  work  on  earth  is  done. 


80 


POEMS. 


Bid  all  thy  sorrowing  children  gather  near, 

As  warriors  brave  surround  their  leader’s  bier, 

And  wakes  the  mournful  requiem’s  loftiest  swell. 

While  to  all  eyes  hot  tears  unbidden  well, 

And  in  deep  reverence  lowly  bows  each  head; 

Let,  in  tones  of  awe,  the  solemn  prayers  be  said, 

And  to  the  sound  of  martial  music  breathing  low 
Let  the  long,  long  procession  go, 

And  lay  him  down  to  rest 
IJpon  thy  faithful  breast. 

Oh,  peaceful  may  his  slumbers  be 
Near  thy  fair  city  by  the  inland  sea. 

While  thou  above  him  watcbeth  sweet  and  mild 
As  doth  a mother  o’er  her  sleeping  child. 

To  him,  great  State,  let  all  thine  honors  be, 

Who  shall  eternal  lustre  lend  to  thee; 

Yet  thou  alone  no  more  can  claim 
The  glory  of  his  lofty  fame; 

It  is  the  great  world’s  legacy. 

Lo!  Freedom,  from  the  gleaming  height 
Where  she  sits  throned  in  awful  light, 

Stoops  downward,  holding  high  her  blazoned  shield, 

On  which,  upon  an  azure  field, 

Circled  with  lilies  white, 

Forever  more  his  name  shall  be 
Enscribed  in  characters  of  flame 
With  those  she  counted  free  from  blame. 

While  on  her  scroll  of  honor  shines  as  bright 
The  chronicle  in  which  her  sons  shall  ages  hence  de- 
light; 

Where  showTs  his  childlike  trust  in  higher  power, 


POEMS. 


81 


His  zeal  to  do  God  service  hour  by  hour, 

His  humble  reverence  for  all  righteous  laws, 

His  high  devotion  to  a noble  cause, 

His  courage  in  the  hour  of  danger  shown, 

His  tender  love  for  those  he  called  his  own, 

His  Christian  patience  on  his  couch  of  pain, 

His  noble  manhood  without  spot  or  stain 
That  record  shall  not  fade, 

But  evermore  shall  shine, 

Perfect  in  every  line, 

By  the  long  lapse  of  ages  brighter  made; 

And  be  to  noble  souls  of  every  age  and  clime 
A high  incentive  to  a life  sublime. 

We  mourn  that  noble  life, 

We  watched  so  long  expand  in  sun  and  shower, 

Should  perish  e’er  we  saw  its  perfect  flower; 

Yet  are  we  not  so  blind  but  we  can  see 
How  e’en  in  such  affliction  an  allwise  decree 
Maketh  still  a higher  good  to  be. 

. How  spake  the  holy  one, 

God’s  well  beloved  Son: 

‘ ‘Unless  the  grain  of  wheat  hath  died, 

It  must  alone  abide; 

But  if  it  die,  it  forth  much  fruit  shall  bring.” 

So  from  his  grave  shall  spring 
For  every  age  the  generous  seed, 

Fruitful  in  thought  and  deed, 

Which,  scattered  wide  to  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

Shall  cause  o’er  all  the  earth  the’  flowers  of  Christian 
love  to  grow. 


82 


POEMS . 


Already  we  the  glad  fruition  see. 

Since  men  of  every  section,  party,  race  and  creed 
Above  his  grave  clasp  hands  in  amity; 

And  this  great  people,  with  a sense  of  common  loss  to 
day, 

That  they  are  one,  at  last,  may  truly  say. 

And  shall  that  influence  grow  from  more  to  more, 

Until  from  shore  to  shore 

This  mighty  nation,  grand  and  free, 

United  all  in  holy  brotherhood  shall  be? 

O wretch,  abhorred  of  God  and  man  ! 

O crawling  worm,  too  mean  to  hate, 

That  stung  to  death  the  truly  great ! 

What  vengeance  could  we  wreak  on  thee 
That  would  not  shame  our  dignity? 

Go,  smitten  by  a nation’s  curse  ! 

God’s  vengeance  falleth  soon  or  late. 

The  child  unborn  thy  name  shall  execrate; 

While  he,  thy  victim,  aye  shall  live, 

Embalmed  in  poet’s  immortal  verse. 

Or  on  historian’s  page  of  gold, 

Ranked  with  the  deathless  ones  of  old 
Whom  all  mankind  in  reverence  hold. 

Queen  of  our  heart  and  hands, 

Although  of  lofty  station  now  bereft. 

As  royal  by  thy  right  divine 

As  are  the  crowned  heads  of  other  lands; 

Since  thou  art  ours  and  we  are  thine. 

O’er  fifty  million  loyal  subjects  reignest  thou  this  day 


POEMS. 


83 


And  none  thy  right  gainsay, 

But  the  whole  world  to  thee  doth  homage  pay. 

We  watched  with  bated  breath 

Thy  hero’s  long  unequal  fight  with  death; 

And  saw  thy  tender  ministries  sustain 

His  soul  through  weary  days  and  nights  of  pain. 

Now  do  we  mourn  with  thee 

That  all  thy  clinging  love  and  anxious  care, 

Thy  trusting  faith  and  agony  of  prayer, 

Could  not  avail  that  precious  life  to  save; 

And  keep  with  thee  sad  vigil  o’er  his  grave. 

In  every  happy  home  in  this  broad  land  to-day 
Loved  ones  look  on  their  households’  prop  and  stay, 
And  turn  with  eyes  o'erflowed  with  tears  to  thee, 

And  tender  hearts  from  far  beyond  the  sea 
Waft  to  thee  fervent  words  of  sympathy; 

While  England’s  widowed  Queen, 

Who  hath  so  long  and  truly  mourned  her  noble  mate 
Throwing  aside  the  pomp  of  regal  state, 

By  thee  in  gracious  womanhood  is  seen. 

Be  strong,  great  woman’s  soul, 

Though  round  thee  surging  waves  of  trouble  roll, 

Be  not  cast  down  with  sorrow  utterly. 

About  thee  cling  the  nation’s  sheltering  arms, 

Strong  to  defend  thy  soul  from  all  alarms. 

She  kneels  with  thee  beside  the  sacred  biei 
Of  him,  her  martyred  son,  she  held  so  dear, 

And  pledges  thee  anew  her  fealty. 

Rest,  circled  by  the  people’s  love, 

And  strong  in  faith  in  Him  above. 

Lift  up  to  heaven  thy  streaming  eyes, 


84 


POEMS. 


For  lo!  the  heavenly  dove,  descending,  brings 
To  thee  the  balm  of  healing  on  his  wings. 

Thy  children  shall  arise 
And  call  thee  blessed; 

And  that  great  light  which  close  beside  thee  shone, 

And  filled  thy  life  with  radiance  divine, 

Though  passed  from  earth,  still  evermore  shall  shine 
Upon  thee  from  the  dark  unknown, 

As  the  departed  sun  lends  light 
To  the  fair  moon  to  glorify  the  night. 

O sons  who  bear  a heritage  sublime 
From  him  who  was  the  glory  of  his  time, 

Still  doth  his  unseen  presence  hover  near 
About  your  path,  to  comfort  and  to  cheer. 

He  speaketh,  although  dead; 

And  not  in  feeble  human  words  alone, 

But  in  that  higher  speech  of  grand  example  shown, 
Teaching  the  lesson  dimly  understood, 

That  simple  duty  is  earth’s  highest  good. 

His  admonitions  heed. 

Be  resolute  in  thought,  and  word,  and  deed. 

Seek  first  the  holy  will  of  God  to  do, 

And  all  things  shall  be  added  unto  you. 

And  thou,  sweet  maiden,  like  an  opening  flower 
Just  bursting  into  gracious  womanhood, 

Bearing  the  burden  of  this  evil  hour 
With  the  true  grace  ,of  Chfistian  fortitude. 

May  the  fond  sufferer’s  benediction  rest 
On  all  thy  future  life,  an  influence  blest; 


POEMS . 


85 


And  of  his  counsels  e’er  the  memory 
Be  as  a light  to  guide  thee  on  thy  way. 

Fond  mother,  that  did  rear 
Thy  noble  son  from  earliest  infancy 
To  walk  the  narrow  path  of  rectitude 
With  reverence  for  God  and  love  of  good! 

He,  to  the  precepts  learned  beside  thy  knee, 

Did  ever  through  his  after  life  adhere; 

And  bore,  ’mid  all  the  honors  he  attained. 

His  boyhood’s  faith  intact,  his  childhood’s  purity  un- 
stained. 

So  didst  thou  see  with  conscious  pride 
On  him  men’s  commendation  well  bestowed, 

Knowing  how  much  to  thee  he  owed, 

Who,  ’mid  the  grinding  toil  of  poverty. 

Molded  his  soul  in  frame  of  true  nobility. 

And  well  .did  he  thy  loving  care  repay, 

Being  to  thee  in  life’s  declining  day 
An  ever  constant  comforter  and  stay. 

But  in  his  loss  the  consolation  still  may  be 
That  he  now  waits  for  thee 
Upon  the  shining  shore 

Of  that  bright  realm  where  partings  are  no  more. 

Rise,  stricken  nation,  from  thy  dark  despair, 

And  mourn  no  more  for  him 

Who  now  hath  passed  beyond  Death’s  portal  dim, 

And  hath  already  reached  those  regions  fair, 

Where  by  the  morning  gate, 

The  star-crowned  angels  wait 


86 


POEMS. 


To  welcome  him  with  glad  acclaim. 

For  in  the  book  of  life  is  writ  his  name, 

And  he  shall  enter  in 

Among  that  glorious  throng  made  pure  from  sin, 

Who,  robed  in  spotless  white, 

Circle  rejoicing  round  the  throne  of  light, 

Since  they,  in  life’s  great  battle  overcame. 

The  race  is  run, 

The  battle  fought,  the  victory  won, 

The  holy  bliss  of  heaven  begun. 

Lo!  he  the  crown  of  thorns  hath  worn, 

The  heavy  cross  of  suffering  nobly  borne, 

Henceforth  the  crown  of  life  eternal  he  shall  wear. 

So,  let  us  leave  him  in  God’s  sacred  care; 

But  let  his  precepts  still  our  hearts  inspire, 

Till  this  great  nation  mount  from  high  to  higher. 

Until,  at  last,  on  glory's  loftiest  height 
Enthroned,  it  shall  unto  the  whole  wide  world  give 
light. 


ODE. 


Bead  at  the  Montifiore  Centenary  Celebration,  Portland, 
Oregon,  October  26,  1884. 


Ye  bards  of  silver  tongue, 

Let  not  alone  his  praises  loud  be  sung, 

Who  comes  with  garments  stained  with  gore. 
Greeted  by  mighty  cannons’  thunderous  roar. 


POEMS . 


87 


From  fields  of  blood,  where  clang  of  conflict  rang; 

But  in  his  honor  sing 

The  truer  hero  of  a nobler  strife, 

Who  the  rich  trophies  not  of  death,  but  life, 

Doth  offering  to  the  world’s  great  altar  bring. 

All  hail  to  him  whose  silver  hair 
The  auriole  of  a noble  life  doth  wear  ! 

On  whom  a century's  light 

Hath  shed  the  glory  of  its  radiance  bright  ! 

His  name  all  men  in  common  reverence  share. 

A life  of  noble  deeds 

Unto  no  clime  or  people  can  belong; 

O’er  the  whole  earth  it  shineth  full  and  Strong- 
Above  all  bounds  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

To  him  is  homage  due 

Who,  to  the  highest  call  of  duty  true, 

Hears  from  afar  the  helpless  sufferer’s  cry, 

And  with  a hand  of  succor  swift  doth  fly 

O’er  sundering  seas,  or  trackless  deserts  through; 

Whose  name  in  many  a clime 

The  sorrowing  hosts  of  downcast  and  opprest, 

With  fervent  prayer  oft  uttered,  long  have  blest 

In  chorus  swelling  o’er  the  seas  of  time. 

Fitly  our  patriarch  bears  his  name, 

Who  regal  station  changed  for  brand  of  shame; 
And,  choosing  with  the  lowly  and  the  poor, 

Their  evil  lot  to  suffer  and  endure, 

In  their  just  cause,  the  proud  ones  overcame. 

He,  Moses  of  our  day, 


88 


POEMS. 


Whose  noble  deeds  the  world  hath  grateful  seen, 

His  good  gray  head,  unwreathed  with  laurel  green, 
Shine3  like  a light  upon  men’s  onward  way. 

His  people’s  constant  friend, 

About  whose  name  all  fond  affections  blend, 

His  memory  shall  ages  hence  endure 

In  all  their  hearts,  an  image  bright  and  pure. 

And  on  his  head  their  blessings  oft  descend. 

Not  old,  but  ever  young— 

Though  on  him  showered  a hundred  winters’  snows — 
Since  in  his  heart  the  fire  of  kindness  glows. 

And  round  him  e’er  love’s  joy-bells  sweet  are  rung, 

Ye  also  who  the  faithful  followers  be 
Of  him,  the  holy  one  of  Galilee, 

Hear  ye  the  words  he  spake,  God’s  well-loved  son,1’ 

< £Who  hath  to  these  my  brethren  kindness  done 
So  even  hath  he  ministered  to  me;” 

And  to  him  homage  pay 

The  great  and  good,  whom  love  hath  sanctified, 
Kindred  in  soul  to  him  who  lived  and  died 
That  on  the  earth  might  break  love’s  holy  day. 

Thank  God,  since  time  began 
For  those  whose  gospel  was  man’s  love  for  man; 
Apostles  of  the  time  when  peace  profound 
Shall  spread  abroad  unto  earth’s  utmost  bound, 

And  all  the  sky  God’s  bow  of  promise  span 
Already  may  we  see 

The  first  faint  radiance  of  the  morning  ray; 

And  soon,  ah!  soon,  shall  break  the  perfect  day 
And  swiftly  all  the  shades  of  darkness  flee. 


POEMS. 


89 


Hasten,  O Lord,  that  blessed  time 
The  fulness  of  the  great  earth’s  glorious  prime! 
Long  since  by  bard’s  and  prophet’s  lips  foretold, 
The  reign  of  holy  love,  the  age  of  gold; 

And  make  no  more  our  faith  a dream  sublime: 
Then  in  earth’s  temple  fair, 

All  those  high  spirits  who  in  deed  or  thought 
Have  for  the  race  in  loving  patience  wrought 
Shall  high  enshrined  men’s  reverent  homage  share. 


BURNS. 


Read  before  the  Caledonian  Club  of  Portland,  Oregon, 
January  26,  1885. 


Sweet  singer,  dear  to  Scottish  hearts, 

Through  all  the  years  their  pride  and  glory, 

How  fragrant  still  in  every  clime 

Thy  memory  breathes  through  song  and  story! 

From  no  slow  growth  of  labored  art 

Was  born  thy  song’s  melodious  measure* 

So  near  thou  wast  to  Nature’s  heart 

She  showered  upon  thee  all  her  treasure* 

The  burn  that  laughed  down  rocky  glen, 

The  lark  at  morn’s  light,  bright  portal  singing. 
Mingled  their  music  in  the  strain 

Through  thy  lay’s  melting  cadence  ringing. 


90 


' POEMS. 


And  as  a maid  herself  adorns 

With  anxious  care  to  please  her  lover, 

So  Nature  to  thy  loving  eyes 

Did  every  grace  and  charm  discover. 

All  common  things,  unto  thy  sight 
Transfigured,  wore  a mystic  glory; 

The  tiny  floweret  at  thy  feet 

Told  to  thy  heart  its  simple  story. 

The  heather  bloom,  the  daisy  fair, 

The  sweet  wild  rose  and  hawthorne  blossom, 

Deep  rooted  in  thy  tender  heart, 

With  eager  transports  thrilled  thy  bosom. 

And  knowledge  beyond  lore  of  men 
Gave  to  thy  soul  a deep  discerning, 

And  stirred  anew  its  trembling  depths 
With  sympathetic  fervor  burning, 

Until  the  inmost  soul  of  man, 

Its  secrets  to  thine  eyes  revealing, 

Found  utterance  in  thy  tuneful  song, 

Throbbing  with  warm  and  generous  feeling. 

So  ever  yet  thy  tender  lays, 

Oft  sung  by  Scottish  maid  and  lover, 

Wafted  abroad  o’er  sea  and  land, 

Are  echoing  sweet  the  whole  world  over. 

And  still  by  Scotland’s  groves  and  streams 
Thv  memory  breaches  with  love  undying, 

And  the  de*r  burden  of  thy  name 
The  very  winds  are  softly  sighing. 


POEMS. 


91 


By  banks  and  braes  of  bonny  Boon, 

And  fresh  green  birks  of  Ayr’s  bright  river, 
Thy  gentle  spirit  fondly  strays 
And  dwells  a living  soul  forever. 

And  so  afar,  ’neath  alien  skies, 

Where  Scotia’s  sons’  true  tearts  are  beating, 
They  ever  hail  thy  natal  day 

With  kindly  thought  and  friendly  greeting. 

And  as  they  drain  the  brimming  cup, 

To  home  and  kindred  loyal  ever, 

Forever  blended  in  their  thoughts 

Thy  name  and  Scotland’s  go  together. 


LEtTR  CRY  OR  THK  PEOPLE.13 


Through  the  centuries  comes  a cry 
From  the  weak  and  sorrowing  poor: 

How  long,  O God!  how  long 
Must  we  suffer  and  endure  ? 

How  long  must  we  groan  and  sweat 
In  the  thrall  of  a useless  toil  ? 

How  long  must  the  fruit  of  our  busy  hands 
Be  the  proud  oppressor’s  spoil? 

As  the  years  roll  on  and  on, 

Still  o’erflows  our  brimming  cup; 

Where  is  he  Christ  to  be 

That  will  lift  the  sorrowing  up? 


92 


POEMS. 


For  the  rich  sit  far  apart, 

Nor  will  heed  our  bitter  cry; 

Why  should  they  know  or  care, 

Though  of  want  their  brethren  die? 

Let  the  haughty  ones  beware 

Lest  the  hour  of  vengeance  come; 

And  a storm  of  terror  burst 

Round  each  stately,  gilded  home. 

Not  of  us  they  need  have  fear, 

For  patient  we  and  meek; 

But  we  may  not  stay  a power 
From  whom  aid  we  do  not  seek. 

For  a wallowing  monster  lies 
In  the  haunts  of  sin  and  crime, 

And  oft  lifts  his  horrid  head 

From  his  slough  of  filth  and  slime. 

And  threateningly  he  stirs, 

When  he  hears  our  bitter  cries; 

Though  he  feeds  upon  our  souls, 

Yet  he  heeds  our  groans  and  sighs. 

Often,  in  days  of  yore, 

Hath  that  monster  waked  in  power, 

And  o’er  the  earth  hath  raged, 

To  ravage  and  devour. 

And  who  shall  bind  him  down, 

Lest  again  his  wrath  we  know: 

And  the  evil  and  the  good 

Be  o’erwhelmed  ’neath  floods  of  woe? 


POEMS. 


93 


SONNETS. 


Beloved  one,  my  spirit  thrills  to  thee 

As  doth  the  wind-harp  to  the  breeze  that  plays, 

Now  sweet,  now  wild,  discordant  melodies. 

What  strain  thon  wouldst,  that  canst  thou  wake  in  me  ; 
I am  but  that  which  thou  wouldst  have  me  be. 

Exert  thy  power,  then,  love,  my  soul  to  raise 
And  purify,  exalt  and  not  debase; 

My  guardian  angel  let  me  find  in  thee. 

Then  if  my  feeble  songs  can  make  thy  name 
Bemembered,  in  the  future  men  will  say: 

Behold,  this  poet’s  lady  did  not  scorn 

His  passionate  love,  nor  brand  his  life  with  shame; 

But  from  her  faithfulness  and  purity 
A nobler  nature  was  within  him  born. 

The  gentle  moon  controls  the  boisterous  sea, 

And  leads  his  billows  wheresoe’er  she  list; 

With  all  his  strength  he  cannot  her  resist; 

And  so,  beloved,  neither  can  I thee; 

But  still  in  all  things  must  thy  follower  be. 

Eor  since  my  brow  by  thy  sweet  mouth  is  kissed, 
Though  far  above  me  among  clouds  and  mist 
Thou  shinest,  still,  O love,  thou  leadest  me 
Upwards  towards  thee  and  heaven.  But  I,  alas  ! 
Chained  to  the  earth,  can  never  mount  to  thee. 

Though  ’gainst  the  rocks  my  spirit’s  billows  dash, 
Beyond  their  boundaries  I cannot  pass. 

Yet  since  such  aim  I have,  though  vain  and  rash, 

Not  wholly  lost  thy  faith  and  purity. 


94 


POEMS. 


JV  Picture  of  Memory. 

A lovely  picture  hangs  on  Memory’s  wall, 

Bright  with  perpetual  sunshine;  and  whene’er 
My  life  is  dark,  I gaze  upon  it  there 
In  those  still  cloisters  where  rich  glories  fall 
In  golden  splendor,  and  its  charms  recall 
My  spirit’s  gladness.  How  surpassing  fair 
That  picture  ! bhining  rings  of  pale-gold  hair, 

A brow  of  marble  whiteness,  blue  eyes  all 
Aglow,  cheeks  softly  tinged  with  rose, 

Like  ocean  shells,  and  full  red  lips  that  smile 
Upon  me,  aye;  but,  more  than  all,  a look 
So  trustful,  and  so  childlike,  without  guile. 

Below  her  eyes’  clear  depths  pure  thoughts  repose, 
Like  diamond  pebbles  ’neath  a crystal  brook. 


To  My  Ideal  Lady, 

Often,  sweet  lady,  do  I see  thee  glide, 

At  the  dim  hour  of  twilight,  through  the  gloom 
Of  darkening  shadows  githering  in  my  room. 

When  sunset  splendors  fade  in  golden  tide, 

There,  in  the  pale  half-darkness,  by  my  side 
I see  thee  stand,  in  all  thy  youthful  bloom; 

Trancing  the  senses  like  a sweet  perfume, 

Or  sound  oi  mellow  music  floating  wide 

Through  night’s  still  chambers.  Oh,  so  brightly  fair 

I see  the  glory  of  thy  floating  hair 

Flooding  thy  form  like  sunshine!  and  thine  eyes 

Gazing  on  me  with  glance  of  pitying  love ! 

Didst  thou  alone  from  fancy’s  dream  arise, 

Or  art  thou  some  bright  angel  from  above? 


POEMS. 


95 


SPRING. 


Come,  lovely  Spring,  and  with  soft  kisses  wake 
The  torpid  earth  from  her  long  winter’s  sleep. 

From  off  the  streams  their  icy  fetters  break, 

And  let  them,  glad  with  golden  sunshine,  sweep, 

Rejoicing  in  their  freedom.  O’er  the  lake 

Breathe  soft  and  low,  and,  as  its  waters  sleep 

In  peaceful  beauty,  stir  its  breast  and  make 

It  quiver  into  billowy  gold.  O’er  steep 

Hillside,  and  vale,  and  downy  mead,  come,  shake 

Ambrosial  odors  from  your  wings,  while  flowers 

Blossom  beneath  your  footsteps,  and  up  springs 

The  crisp  young  grass,  and  all  the  mountains  take 

Hew  beauty,  clad  in  vernal  green;  and  sings 

The  wood-bird  sweetly  in  the  new  blossoming  bowers. 

When  all  the  world  rejoiceth,  and  is  glad 
In  the  new  life  of  Spring;  when  every  tree 
And  flower,  and  leaf,  is  thrilling  with  the  joy 
Of  young  existence,  why  should  man  be  sad? 

Why  let  life’s  petty  griefs  and  cares  annoy, 

When  all  things  else  are  gay?  With  merry  glee 
The  brooklet  gambols,  and  the  breeze  is  glad 
That  plays  among  the  blossoming  trees;  and  rings 
Creation  with  God’s  praise.  From  the  greenwood, 

And  hill,  and  vale,  and  plain,  a thrilling  voice 
I hear;  while  Nature’s  choir  an  anthem  sings 
That  bids  man,  too,  praise  God,  and  says,  “Rejoice, 
And  glorify  the  Lord,  for  he  is  good! 

Let  all  things  join  the  song!  Rejoice,  rejoice!” 


96 


POEMS. 


Decoration  Day. 

May  30,  1879. 

>Tis  well  that  thus,  with  each  recurring  year, 

We  deck  with  bright -hued  flowers  the  dewy  mold 
Of  grassy  graves  whose  narrow  confines  hold 
The  holy  dust  of  those  to  memory  dear. 

Our  deathless  ones,  whose  fame  shines  bright  and  clear 
On  History’s  page,  emblazed  in  lines  of  gold. 

Meet  is  this  honor  to  those  spirits  bold 
Who  nobly  rose,  untouched  by  craven  fear, 

And  crushed  tbe  traitorous  band  that  sought  to  tear 
Down  the  great  temple  of  our  liberties. 

For  as,  in  love  and  reverence,  we  bring 
To  grace  their  lowly  tombs  these  blossoms  fair, 

Sweet  children  of  the  fragrance-breathing  Spring, 

The  world  the  nation’s  grateful  homage  sees. 

The  Stars. 

Ye  burning  stars,  whose  glittering  hosts  on  high 
Bestud  yon  cloudless  heaven’s  dusky  blue, 

When  daylight  fades  in  many  a varied  hue, 

Your  queen,  sweet  Hesperus,  with  dewy  eye, 

Arises  in  the  glowing  west,  and  nigh 

The  paley  moon  beams  bright.  Then,  called  anew 

To  your  bright  watch,  ye  come,  until  the  blue 

Expanse  of  heaven  is  all  ablaze;  and  I 

Long  at  my  casement  watch  your  gleaming  fires, 

Marveling  to  ihink  such  shining  specks  are  suns 

Or  planets  like  our  own,  more  vast  than  they. 

Yet  still  a deeper  wonder  He  inspires 
Whose  mandates  all  creation’s  sons  obey, 

While  round  his  throne  the  chain  of  ages  runs. 


POEMS . 


97 


SONNETS 


on  Faith. 


Dedicated  To  S.  C.,  A Romae  Catholic. 

Our  faith  is  one,  though  thou  wouldst  worship  God 
In  stately  minster,  where,  in  iris  Rues, 

The  stained  panes  day’s  golden  rays  diffuse, 

In  glory,  on  mosaic  pavements,  trod 

For  centuries  by  reverent  feet.  The  sod 

Floors  my  vast  temple;  and  myself  X lose 

In  pillared  shades,  the  sunbeams  bright  suffuse 

With  undimmed  radiance.  The  wild  roses  nod 

Upon  mine  altars.  I with  reverence  tread 

Upon  an  emerald  pavement,  tesselate 

With  flowers ; and  with  a spirit  rapt  and  hear  e a e, 

In  reverence  due,  I lowly  bow  my  head 

Beneath  the  bright  dome  of  the  azure  sky, 

And  there  in  silence  worship  Him  on  high. 


The  pomp  of  solemn  ritual— with  blaze 
Of  waxen  tapers,  clouds  of  incense,  flowers, 
Sweet-breathing  odor  that  the  soul  o’erpowers, 

Fair  sculptured  saints,  rich  paintings,  harmonies 
Of  mighty  masters  which  sweet  voices  raise 
To  the  deep  organ’s  tone,  as  silver  showers 
Mingle  with  mighty  thunder’s  voice- empowers 
Thy  soul  to  fitting  utterance  of  God’s  praise. 

My  choir’s  the  bird’s,  my  organ  plays  the  breeze 
Amongst  the  pines  ; streams  chant  my  litanies. 

I breathe  faith’s  prayer,  though  in  no  stated  forms, 
And  still  God’s  light  of  love  my  being  warms. 

Can  He  the  worship  of  the  spirit  scorn? 

If  so,  why  is  such  hope  within  me  born? 


98 


POEMS. 


You  say  that  I,  in  having  cast  away 
The  worn  incumbrance  of  an  old  belief, 

Have  left  my  soul  without  a single  stay, 

Or  refuge  in  life’s  anguish,  pain  and  grief. 

It  may  be  so  ; yet  while  in  flower  and  leaf, 

And  all  the  wondrous  charms  God’s  works  display, 
I find  so  sweet  a joy,  and  ne’er  am  deaf 
To  Nature’s  hymns  of  praise,  not  far  astray 
I deem  myself  from  Him.  Believe  me,  friend, 

I trust  with  thee  His  hand  will  guide  aright 
My  spirit  groping  blindly  towards  the  light. 

Howe’er  we  differ,  then,  this  is  the  end; 

Thou  wouldst  not  doom  me  to  the  stake  or  rack, 
And  I can  find  in  thy  pure  faith  no  lack. 


The  Autumn  Moon. 


How  beautiful  the  full-orbed  autumn  moon, 

Rising  above  the  mountains.  First  her  light, 

With  a faint  rosy  radiance,  tinges  bright 

The  sky  beyond  yon  tapering  pines.  Then,  rising  soon,. 

In  full-orbed  majesty,  as  earth  doth  swoon 

In  purple  shades  of  even,  to  the  sight, 

Like  a god’s  golden  shield,  she  comes  bedight 
In  all  h r pristine  glory.  O fair  moon, 

How  soon  is  lost  thy  brighter,  richer  glow! 

Yet  shining  with  a purer,  fairer  ray; 

St  11  mounting  upward,  thou  to  me  dost  seem 
Like  some  sweet  maiden’s  soul  while  round  whom  stream 
The  rays  of  dawning  womanhood,  from  below 
Borne  to  the  heights  of  immortality. 


POEMS. 


99 


Success. 

I know,  let  men  deny  me  as  they  may, 

That  God  hath  given  to  me  this  gift  of  song 
For  his  good  purpose!  Though  it  may  he  long 
“Lodged  with  me  useless”;14  yet,  some  future  day, 
There’s  one  will  hear  this  simple  melody 
That  soothes  my  solitude,  and  the  strain  prolong, 
Until  the  world  shall  listen  to  my  song. 

But  it  may  be  as  he  that  hears  the  lay 
Of  dying  swan,  and,  raptured  by  the  strain, 
Hastes  to  the  water’s  brink;  but  comes  too  late, 
And  finds  the  spirit  of  the  singer  fled. 

So  I may  die;  but  I in  patience  wait. 

My  work  will  last  when  I am  with  the  dead, 

For  God  decrees  man  cannot  live  in  vam. 


Despondency. 

0 God,  thou  knowest  I would  not  complain 
Of  this,  my  life,  howsoe’er  dark  it  be, 

Should  only  this  poor  boon  be  granted  me: 
That  all  mine  efforts  be  not  wholly  vain: 

But  that,  in  all  this  toil  of  hand  and  brain, 
At  length  some  little  profit  I may  see. 

This  is  my  sole  request— God  grant  it  me! 

1 am  so  weary  of  the  tug  and  strain 
In  which  no  gain  appeareth.  Only  show 

The  end,  though  distant,  still  in  view,  and  1 
Am  well  content  to  bear  my  load  of  woe. 

But  if  no  good  I win,  howe’er  I try, 

Nor  ever  reap,  no  matter  how  I sow; 

Then,  Father,  in  thy  mercy,  let  me  die ! 


100 


POEMS. 


F"or  a Frierd’s  Album. 


Dear  friend,  if  thou  shouldst  pass  when  I shall  lie 

Silent  and  motionless,  where  o’er  my  grave 

The  wild  flowers  blossom  and  green  branches  wave; 

Wilt  thou  not,  though  all  others  pass  him  by 
Whose  name  was  writ  in  water,  pause  to  sigh 
O’er  one  so  miserable,  to  whom  life  gave 
Naught  he  desired;  who,  although  stout  and  brave, 

In  his  life  struggle  vanquished,  could  but  die  ? 

And  think,  perchance,  had  happier  fate  ordained 
My  ways,  a higher  place  had  I attained, 

And  won  the  laurel  leaf  for  which  I sighed. 

Yet  count  me  not  all  hapless,  since  on  me 
Hath  ever  shone  divinest  poesv, 

And  brought  sweet  solace,  though  the  world  denied. 

— 

Keats’  Epitaph.15 
“Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water.” 

0 sad-eyed  bard ! not  thine  the  hapless  fate 
Thy  dying  voice  in  mournful  tones  expressed ; 

For  thou,  exalted  with  immortals  blest, 

Hast  won  men’s  reverent  homage,  though  too  late. 
But  I that,  crippled,  by  the  wayside  wait — 

Until  at  length  sweet  Death,  the  king  of  rest, 

Shall  still  with  gentle  touch  my  troubled  breast — 
Would  fain  thy  bitter  phrase  reiterate! 

Lo!  I have  borne  the  storm  and  stress  of  life, 

The  useless  struggle,  without  hope  of  gain. 

1 am  a soldier  vanquished  in  the  strife, 

To  whom  no  laurel  solace  gives  to  pain. 

For  me  is  thy  sad  plaint  with  meaning  rife; 

Mine  let  it  be,  since  I have  lived  in  vain. 


POEMS. 


101 


Lake  George. 

Fair  lake,  whose  ever  changeful  beauty  gave 
To  my  enraptured  spirit  strange  delight, 

When,  as  a child,  I saw  thy  waters  blight, 

With  ripple  soft,  thy  pebbly  margin  lave— 

Though  long  beside  Missouri’s  dusky  wave 
I since  have  dwelt— my  fancy,  day  and  night, 

Hath  painted  thee.  And  now  my  eager  sight 

Once  more  beholds  this  scene,  for  many  years  I,  save 

In  too  soon  fading  dreams,  could  never  view. 

Of  more  than  earthly  beauty  seems  thy  reach 
Of  shining,  crystal  waters,  and  thy  hills, 

In  gold  and  crimson,  changed  afar  to  blue 
Or  richest  purple;  and  my  spirit  thrills 
To  hear  thy  rippling  wavelets’  silver  speech. 

Bright  dawns,  and  glorious  sunsets,  and  the  blaze 
Of  noontide  glory,  on  the  silver  lake; 

And  waters  that  with  tuneful  murmurs  break 
Along  the  rocky  shores;  sweet  melodies 
Of  warbling  birds;  soft  breathing  harmonies 
Of  whispering  winds  ’mongst  murmuring  pines  that 
shake 

Their  waving  crests.  All  these  partake, 

And  are  a part  of  the  sweet  summer  days 
I here  have  spent,  as  lost  in  blissful  dreams, 

I wandered  oft  through  shady  greenwood  bowers 
Along  the  banks  of  crystal  mountain  streams; 

Or  glided  soft  where  many  a gray  cliff  towers 
O’er  the  still  lake  bestrewn  with  flashing  gleams, 

Near  verdant  isles  and  headlands  bright  with  flowers. 
Of  all  how  grateful  now  the  memory  seems. 


102 


POEMS. 


Tii e Plague  Summer. 

August,  1878. 

Borne  on  the  southern  breezes  comes  a cry, 

Of  awful  desolation  and  despair, 

From  fever-stricken  cities,  where  the  air 
Breathes  pestilence,  and  all  the  sky 
Is  black  with  Death’s  o’ershadowing  wings,  that  fly 
O’er  all  the  groaning  land;  while  he  doth  bear 
With  him  gaunt  Famine,  and  from  regions  fair 
Comes  forth  a prolonged  wail  of  agony. 

But  with  warm  pity  thrills  the  nation’s  heart, 

And  hands  are  reached  to  succor  and  to  save; 
While  many — be  their  memory  ever  green — 
Undaunted  at  the  call  of  Duty,  start, 

And  in  her  name  the  fell  destroyer  brave, 

Which  proves  our  age  not  sordid,  all,  nor  mean. 


Thank  God  for  every  kindly  human  heart, 

For  every  hand  in  pity  stretched  to  aid 
A suffering  brother.  Though  a gloomy  shade 
O’ershadows  our  dark  earth;  while  far  apart 
Among  strange  nations  do  love’s  courier’s  start, 
And  winging  land  and  ocean  undismayed, 

Bear  balm  to  those  affliction  low  hath  laid — 

I can  but  feel,  O Father,  that  thou  art 
Shaping  to  some  good  end  men’s  destinies. 

Not  vain  though  all  the  ages  past  have  run, 
Entoned  by  bard  and  sage  glad  prophecies, 

Of  the  true  golden  age.  We  see  begun 

Its  glorious  dawn;  though  but  by  slow  degrees 

The  dark  world  swingeth  nearer  to  the  sun. 


POEMS. 


103 


William  Lloyd  Garrison. 
Died,  May  24,  1879. 


Who  among  heroes  can  thy  place  deny, 

Since,  when  to  thee,  in  dawning  manhooi,  came 
Tbe  voice  of  Freedom,  calling  on  thy  name. 

Full  ready  was  thine  answer:  “Here  am  I!” 

And  straight  with  arm  of  strength  didst  thou  let  fly 
Her  winged  arrows,  tipped  with  burning  flame, 

At  the  giant  evil  of  the  nation’s  shame. 

The  might  of  branded  wrong  didst  thou  defy, 

Armed  with  the  thunders  of  God’s  righteous  law. 
Thine  iron  purpose  would  not  bend  or  break. 

Nor  threat  nor  curse  thy  steadfast  soul  could  awe ; 
Nor  raging  mob’s  brute  violence  could  shake. 

But  since  the  right  thy  mind’s  clear  vision  saw, 

All  wouldst  thou  undergo  for  conscience’  sake. 


O grand,  heroic  soul!  ’twas  well  for  thee 

That,  ere  in  thee  was  quenched  youth’s  fervent  heat, 

Upon  thy  head  the  raging  tempest  beat 

And  spent  its  force ; so,  ere  life’s  ending,  free 

From  all  thy  toil  and  striving,  thou  couldst  see 

Thy  finished  life-work  rounded  and  complete. 

After  so  fierce  a struggle  rest  is  sweet. 

Yet  ’mongst  the  great  of  earth,  how  few  they  be 
Who,  serving  ideal  good,  as  thou  hast  done, 

Ere  the  dark  shades  of  evening  round  them  fell 
Could  find  so  sweet  a peace  at  set  of  sun  ! 

And  while  the  world’s  acclaims  did  doubt  dispel, 

From,  the  long-wished-f  or  goal  in  triumph  .won, ^ 

Gould  say:  “Life’s  work  is  finished;  it  is  well!” 


104 


POEMS. 


The  Brook. 

Sweet  brook,  that  gambols  down  the  mountain-side, 

How  soft  thy  pleasing  murmur  greets  mine  ear! 

And  glad  I see  thy  waters  gushing  clear, 

Among  thy  mossy  stones,  in  crystal  tide. 

When  sweet  wild  flowers  are  blossoming  far  and  wide, 
In  pleasant  thought,  I love  to  wander  here, 

Recalling  scenes  to  memory  ever  dear; 

Or  on  some  grassy  hillock  by  thy  side 
Reclined,  to  let  my  fancy  roam  at  will. 

Then,  in  my  summer  dreams  I oft  behold 
Thy  Naiad  pouring  from  a silver  vase, 

In  some  lone  cavern  on  yon  misty  hill, 

Thy  limpid  waters,  ever  fresh  and  cold. 

From  her  hast  thou  thy  wild  and  wayward  grace. 

Garfield. 

November  12,  1880. 

Hail,  Garfield,  hail!  the  nation’s  chosen  head! 

A type  of  noble  manhood  dost  thou  stand, 

Self  crowned;  the  peer  of  that  illustrious  band 
Whose  names  a glory  on  our  annals  shed. 

Although  thou  wast  in  lowliest  station  bred, 

E’er  didst  thou  labor  strong,  in  heart  and  hand; 

And  so  didst  Fortune’s  adverse  powers  withstand, 
Until  about  thy  brow  Fame’s  halo  spread. 

Ne’er  didst  thou  honors  seek;  but,  brave  and  strong. 
Didst  simply  walk  where  duty  led  the  way. 

Thou  wouldst  not  do  thy  nobler  nature  wrong, 

By  lights  of  .false  ambition  led  astray; 

And  so,  though  slanderous  hate  assailed  thee  long, 
Thine  acts  stand  all  approved  in  open  day. 


POEMS. 


105 


In  Memory  ok  My  Mother, 

Died,  November  20,  1880. 

Oh,  dearest  mother,  little  did  I dream, 

When  on  my  brow  thy  last  fond  kiss  was  prest, 
My  glance  might  never  more  upon  thee  rest, 

Nor  thine  in  tender  love  upon  me  beam! 

O God,  how  dreary  all  this  world  must  seem, 
Bereft  of  thy  sweet  presence!  Grief  opprest, 

Oft  have  I yearned  to  lie  on  Nature’s  breast 
In  peaceful  slumber:  since  I needs  must  deem, 
Thrice  happy  they  by  God’s  love  purified, 

Who  rest  in  holy  sleep,  the  happy  dead. 

And  when  I knew  earth’s  highest  joy  denied, 

And  saw  thy  gentle  soul  before  me  fled, 

How,  in  an  agony  of  grief,  I cried: 

“Would,  God,  I could  have  perished  in  thy  stead!’1 


Sweet  mother,  when  I think  on  thy  dear  face, 

I see  it  radiant  with  the  light  it  bears 
Before  the  pearly  throne.  Of  earthly  cares 
On  its  pure  lineaments  remains  no  trace; 

But  evermore  a pure  and  heavenly  grace. 

A smile  of  peace  ineffable,  it  wears 
Sign  of  the  joy  thy  raptured  spirit  shares 
With  blest  immortals  in  the  holy  place. 

It  cannot  be  so  sweet  a soul  as  thine 
Could  linger  in  the  grave’s  abyssmal  night. 

Thou  must,  encircled  by  a love  divine, 

Have  found  a higher  life  of  pure  delight, 
Where,  ever  more  and  more,  God’s  glories  shine; 
In  those  celestial  regions  calm  and  bright. 


106 


POEMS. 


I strive  to  count  thee  happier  in  a sphere 
Beyond  the  fret  and  toil  of  this  low  earth, 

Where  souls  immortal  joy  in  higher  birth; 

Yet,  oh,  beloved,  I yearn  to  feel  thee  near! 

All  earth  seems  now  to  me  a desert  drear, 

I am  so  sad  and  lonely.  Little  worth 

Seems  all  life’s  struggle,  since  I knew  the  dearth 

Of  thy  fond  love,  which  was  my  solace  here. 

Be  with  me,  then,  in  spirit,  still  to  guide 
My  footsteps,  so  that  when  life’s  tasks  are  done 
I may,  with  thee,  beyond  death’s  swelling  tide, 
The  peace  of  God’s  most  blessed  home  have  won; 
And,  ’mongst  the  throng  His  grace  hath  glorified, 
Shall  find  my  true  existence  just  begun. 


Bereavement. 


Oh,  wherefore  in  the  Scriptures  do  we  see 
So  writ:  ‘The  bruised  reed  he  will  not  break, 

Nor  quench  the  smoking  flax;”  when  we  must  wake 

So  oft  that  bitter  cry  of  agony 

Wrung  from  the  blessed  one  of  Calvary:  . 

“O  God,  my  God!  Why  dost  thou  me  forsake?” 

Is  there  no  water  our  soul’s  thirst  to  slake  ? 

No  balm  to  heal  our  wounded  hearts?  Must  we 
Alone  here,  in  the  darkness,  moaning  lie, 

In  hour  of  bitter  sorrow  desolate; 

And  hear  no  pitying  answer  to  our  cry 

Of  anguish,  as  our  loved  pass  through  the  iron  gate? 

Or  is  it  so,  or  whence  this  whisper  nigh: 

‘Fear  not,  but  trust  his  mercy — only  wait?” 


POEMS . 


107 


Longfellow. 

Died,  March  24th,  1882. 

Sweet  singer,  who  hath  passed  from  earth  away, 
Through  the  still  valley  of  thine  honored  age, 

Closing  at  length  in  peace  thy  pilgrimage  — 

We  pay  our  tribute  at  thy  bier  to-day, 

Enshrining  in  our  hearts  thy  memory. 

Let  all  the  coming  years  their  tumult  wage; 

They  naught  can  mar  thy  fame,  howe’er  they  rage; 

For  peoples  yet  unborn  thy  melting  lay 
Shall  move  with  sense  of  ever  new  delight. 

Thou  art  not  dead,  and  can  never  die. 

Though  passed  forever  from  our  mortal  sight; 

Still  may  we  feel  thy  living  presence  nigh, 

Or  see  thee  sitting,  throned  in  awful  light, 

With  all  the  godlike  bards  of  days  gone  by! 

On  the  Death  of  My  Brother. 

T.  A.  Steell,  Murdered  at  Coeur  d’  Alene  Mines,  Idaho. 

June  20th,  1884. 

Alas!  my  brother,  sleeping  far  away. 

Where  all  the  wailing  winds  make  dreary  moan 
Among  the  silent  mountains  sad  and  lone, 

How  quickly  quenched  thy  young  life’s  ardent  ray! 
E’en  while  about  thy  path  in  colors  gay, 

By  fancy  painted,  wondrous  visions  shone 
Of  golden  treasure  hid  in  crypts  of  stone, 

Thy  heart  was  in  a moment  stilled  for  aye. 

Eor  as  asudden,  smote  by  lighting’s  flash, 

Falls,  in  the  forest  lone  the  stately  oak, 

So  thou,  in  pride  of  brave  young  manhood,  fell. 

Why  should  Death  from  thy  hand  life’s  goblet  dash. 
Brimming  with  golden  wine  ? This  awful  stroke 
Of  cruel  fate,  how  can  we  think  it  well? 


108 


POEMS. 


Happiness. 

Fair,  fleeting  phantom,  men  thy  steps  pursue, 

And  ever  must  desire  thee  more  and  more; 

Yet  can  but  see  thee  flitting  just  before, 

And  miss  thee  still,  then  join  the  chase  anew. 

Sometimes  thy  form,  half  lost  in  distance  blue, 

Seems  hovering  some  far  mountain’s  summit  o’er, 
Sometimes  thou  beckonost  to  some  distant  shore; 
Then  amid  mists  and  shadows  fade  from  view. 

Some  fancy  that  thou  dwellest  in  warrior  s tent; 

Some  that  in  pleasure’s  hall  thou  hast  thy  throne; 
Others  that  gold  can  lure  thee.  He  most  bent, 

To  seize  thee,  and  to  claim  thee  for  his  own, 

Must  lose  thee  seeking  far;  for  called  Content 
Dwellest  thou  oft  by  many  a quiet  hearthstone. 

To  FtA/TTI. 

O peerless  songtress,  with  such  sweetness  rare 
Thy  voice  upon  the  perfumed  air  doth  ring 
That  all  the  raptured  soul  is  listening! 

Forgotten  are  the  glitter  and  the  glare, 

The  jostling  throng,  the  close  and  sultry  air. 

My  spirit,  like  a disembodied  thing, 

The  wave  of  sound,  melodious,  on  light  wing, 

To  an  enchanted  region  seems  to  bear. 

Then  when  thou  cease,  and  deafening  thunders  break 
Of  long  applause,  while  blossoms  strew  thee  round, 

As  one  arousing  from  a heavy  swound, 

Trembling,  I from  my  blissful  dream  awake. 
God-gifted  one,  where,  to  earth’s  utmost  bound. 

May  such  a marvelous  gift  as  thine  be  found 
Which  doth  of  heaven’s  very  soul  partake  ? 

San  Francisco,  March  14th,  1885. 


POEMS . 


109 


Iv’  ENVOY. 

Sweet  spirit,  who  hath  led  my  feet  to  stray 

Through  the  dim  aisles  of  song,  where  echoing  sound 

Soft  breathings  of  immortal  melody; 

Guiding  me  where,  with  fadeless  garlands  crowned, 

On  fame’s  high  summits  throned  in  luminous  ring, 

The  world's  great  minstrels  sit  and  sweetly  sing. 

And  so  hast  taught  my  faltering  voice  to  raise 
Faint  echoes  of  their  divine  harmonies, 

Wandering  with  thee  where  rippling  streamlets  play 
Through  greenwood  shades,  or  where  the  still  lakes 
shine, 

Circled  by  mountains  fringed  with  fir  and  pine, 

Or  grassy  meadows,  strewn  with  flowerets  g ay. 

Forsake  me  not;  be  with  me  still,  I pray! 

Bearing  for  all  life’s  ills  a grateful  balm 
From  the  enchanted  region,  sweet  and  calm, 

Which  is  thy  home.  So  shall  my  spirit  aye 
Thrill  with  a rarer,  sweeter  melody, 

As  thou  by  pleasant  ways  my  steps  shall  guide 
To  loftier  heights  of  thought,  as  yet  untried. 


THE  END. 


no 


POEMS. 


NOTES. 


“THE  POET.” 

(1.)  Page  10.—  “Heaven  opened  wide ; 

Her  ever  during  gates  harmonious  sound 
On  golden  hinges  turning.” 

— Milton’s  “ Paradise  Lost.” 

(2.)  “The  next  night 

It  came  again  with  a great  wakening  light.” 

Leigh  Hunt:  “ Abou  Ben  Adhem .” 

(3.)  “And  with  the  selting  sun 

Dropped  from  the  zenith  like  a falling  star. 

— Milton’s  “ Paradise  Lost.” 

“THE  POET’S  SOUL.” 

(4.)  Page  13. — As  there  is  some  similarity  between  the  general  idea 
of  this  piece  and  that  of  Goethe’s  fine  lyric,  “Die  Seele  des  menschen  ist 
gleich  Wasser,”  I will  state,  in  justice  to  myself,  that  it  was  written  several 
years  before  I had  read  the  exquisite  lines  of  the  great  German  poet. 

“THE  THUNDER  SHOWER.” 

(5.)  Page  29.— Ever  since  I have  been  able  to  overcome  my  childish 
dread,  thunder-storms  have  had  great  attractions  for  me,  as  among  the 
most  sublime  phenomena  of  nature.  Theseverses give  a very  inadequate, 
but  by  no  means  exaggerated,  description  of  some  of  the  storms  I have 
witnessed. 

“the  meeting  of  summer  and  autumn.” 

(6.)  “A  station  like  the  Herald  Mercury 

Newly  lighted  on  the  heaven  kissing  hill.” 

J — “Hamlet. 

“LONGFELLOW.” 

(7.)  Page.  61. — In  connection  with  these  lines  and  the  sonnet  written 
at  the  time  of  his  death,  I cannot  forbear  giving  here  the  following  letter, 
received  from  the  great  poet,  in  reply  to  one  of  mine,  inclosing  some  im- 
mature verses,  as  an  illustration  of  his  kindness  of  heart. 


POEMS. 


Ill 


Cambridge,  Feb.  8th,  1879. 

“Dear Sir:  ^ . ... 

Want  of  time  and  other  considerations  render  it  impossible 

for  me  to  examine  manuscripts  and  give  critical  opinion  of  their  merits. 

Of  the  sonnets  you  send  me,  I can  only  say  that  I have  read  them 
with  pleasure. 

The  only  criticism  I have  to  make  upon  them  is,  that  they  do  not 
strictly  conform  to  the  laws  of  the  sonnet,  as  laid  down  and  followed  by  the 
Italians,  who  have  carried  that  kind  of  composition  to  its  greatest  per- 
fection. 

I allude  to  the  interlacing  of  the  rhymes,  in  which  English  writers, 
from  Shakespeare  down,  have  taken  liberties,  injurious  to  the  complete- 
ness  of  form. 

This  I suggest  as  worthy  of  consideration. 

Yours  truly,  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

WAITING.'  ’ 

(8.)  Page  64=.— I find  these  lines  to  be  little  more  than  an  imitation 
of  a beautiful  poem  by  Elizabeth  Akers  Allen,  published  some  years  since 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  under  the  title  of  “The  Silver  Bridge.”  The  re- 
semblance, however,  only  consists  in  the  use  of  the  same  refrain  and  some 
similarity  in  the  tone  and  rhythm.  As  the  imitation  was  at  first  uncon- 
scious, I have  given  the  verses  a place  here  in  order  to  illustrate  the  effect 
produced  on  my  mind  by  Mrs.  Allen’s  fine  lyric. 

“IN  MEMORI \M.” 

(9.;  Page  67.— These  lines  were  written  in  memory  of  Della  E.  Soules, 
a little  schoolmate  who  died  of  diphtheria  atLacole,  Canada,  in  the  winter 
of  1877.  The  exact  date  I have  not  been  able  to  verify,  owing  to  the  haste 
in  which  this  volume  was  prepared. 

“A  TRIBUTE.” 

(10.)  Page  70.— “And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy, 

Though  little  cared  for,  fades  not  yet ; 

But  since  it  pleased  a vanished  eye, 

I go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb, 

That  if  it  may  it  there  will  bloom, 

Or  fading,  there  at  least  may  die.” 

Tennyson's  “ In  Memoriam.” 


112 


POEMS. 


“BAYARD  TAYLOR.” 

(11.)  Page  73.— Taylor’s  Ode  on  the  death  of  Bryant  was  published  in 
Scribner’s  Monthly , I believe,  almost  simultaneously  with  the  an- 
nouncement of  his  own  death. 

MONTEFIORE  ODE. 

(12.)  Page  89.— These  words  are  not  intended  to  present  a claim  of 
the  Messiahship  of  Jesus.  I speak  of  him  here  solely  as  the  apostle  of  the 
great  gospel  of  humanity.  As  a very  liberal  Christian,  I believe  the  great 
essential  of  his  teaching  to  beexpressed  in  the  words  of  James:  “True  re- 
ligion and  undefiled  before  God  is  to  visit  the  widows  and  the  fatherless 
and  to  keep  oneself  unspotted  from  the  world,”  a common  ground  on 
which  good  men,  both  Jew  and  Christian,  may  unite.  I believe  Sir  Moses 
Montefiore  is  a very  orthodox  Jew,  and  I respect  his  faith  in  that  it  has 
prompted  him  to  a life  of  lofty  aims  and  beneficent  deeds.  I write  of 
him,  however,  only  as  a man  whose  services  to  humanity  have  not  been 
confined  by  any  narrow  bounds  of  sect  or  creed.  This  stanza  was  omitted 
when  the  poem  was  read  out  of  deference  to  the  wishes  of  the  gentlemen 
comprising  the  committee  of  arrangement;  it  is  given  here,  however,  in 
order  to  show  more  fully  the  standpoint  from  which  the  piece  was  written , 
and  to  preserve  the  sequence  of  the  thought  and  rhythm. 

“THE  CRY  OF  THE  PEOPLE  ” 

(13.)  Page  91.— I have  no  sympathy  with  the  extravagant  theories  usual 
among  those  calling  themselves  socialists;  but  I believe  some  relief  for 
the  struggling  masses -not  in  the  way  of  alms-giving,  but  through  the 
adoption  of  a systematic  plan  for  bettering  the  condition  of  the  wage- 
workers—is  necessary,  in  order  to  avert  dangers  to  the  State,  which,  in 
the  end,  our  form  of  democratic  government  will  serve  rather  to  augment 
than  to  check. 

“SUCCESS.” 

(14.)  Page  99. — “Lodged  with  me  useless.” 

—Milton’s  sonnet  on  his  blindness. 

“KEATS’  EPITAPH.” 

(15.)  Page  100.— This  sonnet  was  published  in  a prose,  sketch  by  the 
author. 


* 


